


these underdog hearts

by troubles



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 04:44:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16055804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubles/pseuds/troubles
Summary: It starts in October: the sun is shining, the leaves are falling, and Steve Rogers is Captain of the Toronto Maple Leafs.





	these underdog hearts

**Author's Note:**

> this is pure wish fulfillment; the wish being my own. But god, i've been working on this for what feels like ages, but because of one hilarious and rather embarrassing misstep, it is only seeing the light of day now. 
> 
> i've fudged real timelines, meaning that very little in this story has a real life correlation - except for the speech at the end made by Jonah J. Jameson. That's a slightly paraphrased version of what Bettman said this past year when the Caps won the Stanley Cup. Aside from that, inspiration was taken from a mixture of different players. Steve wears #19, which has been worn by several talented centers, mostly (including my favourite, Steve Yzerman heyooo), and Bucky wears #24, because that's my own number. Aside from that, the only player who truly has a RL counterpart is Wolverine/J. Howlett - he's obviously Jaromir Jagr, in this case, because I was totally in love with the testimonials people gave in his last few seasons, and how some of his teammates were just being born while he was drafted to the NHL.
> 
> and finally, i'm used to writing 15k max. this is double that! I could not have done this without a certain few ladies. I don’t know your ao3 handles, but you’ll know who you are. I love you.

PROLOGUE

* * *

It’s a cool evening in Toronto on April 11th, and the outside air, musky with the scent of recently fallen rain, seems heavy with the sentence that’s on every Sportscentre tagline and fans’ lips alike: the Toronto Maple Leafs fail to make the Playoffs. Again.

The locker room is swarmed with reporters and half-dressed teammates, already stripping off their gear and donning towels and toiletries to hit the showers. The Captain is talking to the media across the room after giving the final speech of the season. This is only his third season playing in the NHL, but Steve Rogers recognizes the feeling: fraught with tension of another loss and the knowledge that some of the faces won’t be returning next year. Hell, he thinks his place is on lock, but there'll be time enough in the summer to obsess about fitness and contracts and everything that goes along with the excitement of a new season. That’s a distant thought and any optimism ended with the final buzzer. Steve stands in his under-armour leaning his head against the wooden stall, his hair sweaty and matted to his forehead where he knows his helmet left red indents. The marks will fade within the next hour or so but the sting of losing the last game of the season on home ice, 3-2 to the Montreal Canadiens, will not. In front of him stand a few men from the city papers, a video crew, and a pretty blonde woman from the sports network. In the stall beside him, defenseman Tony Stark texts his girlfriend, uncharacteristically shrugs off a questioning lady, and then walks away.

“Steve! Steve Rogers, any comments on tonight’s game?”

What more is there to say, Steve wants to ask. They took it to the wire and they got shut out of a wild card spot. He gives a perfunctory response.  
“I think we played a hard-fought game, that last period especially, and we’re disappointed that we couldn’t at least push it to overtime. No one wants to end a season with another loss.”

“You got an assist off Sam Wilson’s shorthanded goal tonight – any comments on that?”

  
“Well, Sam’s a real talented player and I think we’re lucky to have acquired him this season from the Capitals. He plays well with Riley, and with me too. He’s… you need the kind of player who can provide that kind of lift, even when you’re on the penalty kill. I gave the assist, but it was Sam who knew where he needed to be to receive it.”

“Always gracious, Mr. Rogers. The Maple Leafs fell just short of the playoffs though… that must hurt team morale. How will this impact next season?”

  
“Well, Betty, I think first we’ll have to see how the Playoffs progress.” One writer, Shaun, as his media badge clarifies, interrupts to ask who he thinks will win the Stanley Cup. “Uh, Chicago, maybe? Yeah, I’ll go with the Blackhawks… as I was saying I think the midseason losses really hurt the dynamic but, I mean, we’ll have all summer to train up, to practice, relax, get in new blood. Every season is a blank slate. Y’know, sometimes things don’t work out… we’re going to keep on keeping on. Hopefully luck will be on our side.”

  
A balding man with a thick black moustache says: “So, you’re going to count on luck for next time, is what you have to say about flunking out of the playoffs? It’s been a decade, but the Maple Leafs do have a tendency to consistently underperform and yet always profit, pocket-wise.”

  
Gritting his teeth, he stands a bit straighter.

  
“You’re not from Toronto, are you? I’m a Brooklyn boy myself, but I look at some of my teammates, I meet our fans, I hear them, and I can tell how much this team means to them. The feeling here, this is what every kid dreams of when they get their first pair of skates. It’s not the money and the waterfront condos and the expensive cars – it’s the rush of the ice beneath your blades and the slap of the puck when it hits your stick. This is a city that’s crazy for hockey – we eat, breathe, and dream it. So you know what? We missed the playoffs again: that sucked but there’s nowhere I’d rather be, not with the Canadiens, the Bruins, or the Blackhawks. I get it, where you’re coming from, I get paid to do what I love, and that’s just a bonus – if you think I, if you think the team, doesn’t put in the same effort, the same dedication that you do every day for your job, then you’re delusional, pal. God willing, we play the Habs in the first round; if we do, you can bet we’ll avenge this loss. I can’t promise this city a Stanley Cup, I don’t have that much power, but I can damn well promise that we’re going to train hard, work hard, and play hard next season. That’s it.”

The next day the Star headline reads: “How Steve Rogers lost the game and won the city of Toronto.” He gets the C a month later, when Ryan James is traded to the LA Kings.

***

The Blackhawks win the season that year. Steve doesn’t watch it, but news of their now-defunct Cup-drought is unavoidable, especially for a hockey player. As for him, he only watches the playoffs so far as the Rangers get eliminated.

That summer, Steve Rogers gets a call from Coach Fury. It’s brief. Fury asks how he feels about playing alongside women, and Steve, unseen in his high-rise condo, shrugs and says he’s never played with one before. During the off-season, Coach Fury and General Manager Kirby make a hell of a power move by signing the undrafted Natasha Romanoff. It’s nothing short of a total shock, and the organization has made it clear that she’s not the next Manon Rheaume; she’s set to be the first female hockey player to dress for a full season on an NHL team.

The media frenzy starts immediately after the announcement, and Steve’s relatively quiet phone lights up with dozens of requests for comments and interviews. Hell, half of his team, and all his buddies from the World Juniors and NCAA have sent him texts asking if he knew. He’s not sure if the tone is accusatory, or if they’re just genuinely curious, so he responds to all with some variation on the sentiment “No idea, but check out her reel. She carried the Russian women’s team to their last Olympic silver.”

Two hours later finds Steve’s still on the couch, now nursing a headache after talking to their PR woman, Maria Hill. Something about meeting Natasha when she gets back to Canada. Steve mutters affirmations when she requires them; of course, he wants to meet his new teammate; of course, he’ll talk to the boys about it. He’s not unenthused, just exhausted. And maybe a little wary about how the rest of the guys will react to having a woman on the team, much less one that looks like Natasha Romanoff. It’s inconsequential though, Steve is going to make sure she’s treated just like one of the guys, and anyone who comments otherwise will answer to him. His phone pings again, and with a groan, he blindly reaches over for it. It’s just a text from Clint Barton, his second line center.

_Yo. Did u c the hands on her? She’s better than half the guys in the league._

***

Despite Maria’s call in July, he doesn’t meet Natasha until early August. Maria asks if he wants her to set up a dinner, but Steve’s not totally comfortable with the idea, and doesn’t want to mislead the ravenous media into thinking it’s a date. Instead, he asks for her number, and after some delay Maria responds. He texts her, and two days later she shows up in the middle of the day, in athletic wear like she’d been at a gym around the area.

The way Natasha walks into a room, you’d think it’s her own. When Steve lets her in, she strolls right over to sit on the couch and props her feet up on the coffee table. Steve walks his way over to the fridge, glancing at what little groceries he has.

“You all settled in?” He asks.

“I’m not unfamiliar with the area,” she replies.

Fuck it. They’ve got over a month until pre-season starts.

“Beer?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Unthinkingly, he tosses one over and before he has the time to mentally chastise himself for his carelessness and lack of manner, she reflexively catches it. He sits down with his beer and a bowl full of bagged-popcorn. It doesn’t take a long time to figure out that Natasha is going to fit in perfectly fine. She knows hockey just as much as any of the guys do, and she’s tough as nails to boot.

“You’re just as much Captain Perfect as everyone says you are? You got any problems having a girl on your team?”

“It’s not you I’m worried about. You’re damn good, and we both know it. The guys, the fans… they’re going to be hesitant, you know. They don’t like change, or anyone who’s different but… you seem like you can handle yourself.” Her smirk tells him he’s damn right. “Can I ask you something? I don’t mean to come off as offensive, either…”

She waves her hand nonchalantly. “Shoot.”

“I know what they’re paying you. It’s peanuts, Natasha. You deserve more than that.”

“I’ve lived on less.”

He thinks about his mother, coming home from a twelve-hour shift, ragged and tired, a new pair of gloves in her hand. Their small apartment in Brooklyn, where they kept a meager pantry and struggled with bills. Sarah slept on a mattress without a frame, and Steve wore down the soles of his shoes until they were barely separating his feet from the ground. His hockey scholarship was nothing short of a blessing, and his only regret is that his mother had to watch him go first overall in the draft from her hospital bed. He envisioned her being there, clutching him in a solid embrace and fiercely whispering her pride. She passed away three days after the draft, her grip on his hand loose, the pride in her voice the only thing left of the strongest person Steve ever knew.

He blinks out of his reverie, and hopes he didn’t space out for too long.

Yeah, he thinks, he likes this girl a whole goddamn lot.

Steve’s Stella clinks as it hits the neck of Nat’s, and Steve doesn’t think again about whether he needs to worry about Natasha.

***

She’s not the only new face they bring in that summer. They sign Thor Odinson from Tampa, and Steve feels good about the reliability he provides on defense. Thor is tall, taller than Steve, and bigger than just about any guy in the league. His size is only augmented by his skill, his playoff experience, and the fact he’s got a rocket shot so hard and so fast that even Steve wants to move the fuck out of the way if Thor is the one behind the puck.

When the Leafs finally hit the ice, it’s to the thunderous sound of a sold-out arena. And they fucking kill it. Natasha takes to the NHL like a fish in water, scoring the game-winning goal in the third period, off a beauty of a pass from Clint. She’s not the first NHL player to score in their first game, and she won’t be the last. Steve himself scored his first NHL goal in his first game on his first shot, and pointed to the rafters with a gloved finger in a silent tribute to his mom. Natasha pays tribute to nobody and gives no illusion that she does this for anybody but herself. She simply holds her arms outstretched and moves her hands in a “come and get it” motion, as if to say _how about that, motherfuckers?_ And from the bench Steve goes just as wild as the fans do.

The locker room is not completely without tension, but it’s something Steve was right about – Nat can handle herself. She’s upfront and deals with the few issues that arise, and by the mid-January it’s pretty clear that if there’s anything to be scared about, it’s her. Her and Clint seem to have a hell of a connection, and if any of the guys are giving her shit it’s no more than they’d give to any other teammate. For Steve, it’s nearly a fairytale year. The team stays free of long-term injuries, and they’re riding high by the time the Olympics hit in February. When they do, Thor is jubilant to once again represent Norway, Clint has his first call-up for Team Canada, and Steve and Tony are both wearing As for the United States. Steve is inarguably the player of the tournament even in his own estimation, but after he scores the winning goal seven minutes and twenty-four seconds into overtime against Canada in the gold medal game, there are cries of “Captain America” from around the rink and his teammates, including his own grinning National Team captain, Grainger, who’d already stated his plans to retire from both international hockey and the NHL. By the end of the season, the Leafs make the playoffs for the first time in a decade. They go out in the first round after a tense game 7 loss to the Boston Bruins, who go on to win the Stanley Cup.

 

 OCTOBER

* * *

 

When the hockey season rolls around, Steve’s internal clock is five minutes ahead of the one on his phone. It’s routine now, to quell the sound of the alarm before it can start, get out of bed, and start his day. Steve’s not exactly a morning person, but he likes his routine and the sun helps with that, streaming through the sheer blinds, until Steve throws back the curtains to let it bathe his bedroom in light. He blinks twice, smiles to himself, and picks up his phone. He texts Nat and Sam.

_If you get here before 730 you won’t have to make your own breakfast._

Nat’s reply is nearly instantaneous: _see you in 10._

Steve dresses, grabs his bag from the chair in the corner, and walks into the main space of his apartment. His room is neat enough, so he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him, just walking straight to the entryway and dropping his duffel closer to the exit. Gratified that he made a blender-full of kale smoothie last night, Steve makes his way into the kitchen and pulls out the ingredients for three portions of egg-white omelets and sausages. He sets three places at the breakfast bar, and begins to divvy up the smoothie into three glasses before moving to the sink. He sees Natasha sitting on a bar stool when he looks up from washing fruit.

“Christ, Nat. I didn’t even hear you. You sure you’re a hockey player, and not a spy?”

She snorts. “Not in this lifetime, Rogers. You do realize you gave half the team your key and apartment code, right? Of course, you do. Need any help with the omelets?”

“Nah. Plates are set, so you’re good to just wait until Sam gets here.”

“You spoil me.”

“It’s nothing you don’t deserve.”

“You’re ridiculous, Rogers.”

“How many times are you going to make me say it? Just make yourself at home.”

“Sure. Whatever.” She turns to her phone and starts scrolling. “Anyway, I’ve been meaning to say it, but I like Maximoff on my line. I mean, I’m sure we’re all thinking it but the kid’s fast, and he plays well with Clint.”

“Chip off the old block, eh?”

“Don’t start with me, Steve. I can’t fucking believe Erik Lensherr had a secret lovechild and the hockey world just found out about it a few months ago.”

“He had two,” Steve smirks, finally, something he knows that Natasha doesn’t. “Pietro has a twin sister. She’s doing law at U of T.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and starts idly moving around Steve’s apartment and upturning small knickknacks despite the countless times she’s been there. “Of course you would know this. You probably made the rookies dinner or protein shakes to let them know they were welcome to the… oh shit, is that your bedroom?”

“There’s a bed in it. What are you getting at?”

She snorts. “It’s clean, that’s all.”

“And?”

“I never said ‘and’.”

“It’s never just ‘that’s all’ with you, Nat.”

“I have a question for you, of which you do not have to answer. I feel like if you don’t answer it though, you’re kind of answering it, you know?”

“What?”

“You don’t have a lot of girls in it, do you?”

“You’re right, I’m not answering that.”

The door opens. “I’m convinced you call me over so damn early because you hate me.” It slams. “I always forget how Spartan this place is.”

Steve groans, and Natasha brightens, turning around to greet Sam.

“I was just telling him that.”

“That’s not what you said, you were telling me I needed to go on more dates.”

“She’s right, you do.”

“No, I implied you needed to get laid. But it’s true, you need to date more, Steve. When was the last time?”

“If that’s a sex question, I’m begging you Steve, do not answer it because man, I do not need to know. Not now, and especially not this early.”

“It’s not a sex question. All genuine here, I swear.”

Sam looks more comfortable then. “Oh that’s easy, then,” he replies on Steve’s behalf, “Peggy Carter, in his rookie year. She was a few years older, I think. Absolutely gorgeous, way outta this guy’s league – smells great, by the way, man - she’s back in London now though.”

Steve grimaces.

The thing is, Peggy broke up with him years ago, so he’s had ample opportunity to get over it and move on. He saw it coming, too. It was his first serious relationship and a part of him knew it wasn’t going to last – it wasn’t because Peggy didn’t understand the first thing about hockey; she was supportive of Steve and his ambition. It wasn’t even that Steve was a bad boyfriend; he just wasn’t a good one. It’s technically not in the job description. Every woman who dates a hockey player knows that there are things they can’t do and things they can. For example, as a couple they can afford all the best restaurants in Toronto but they can’t afford a fixed date every Saturday night at said restaurants. That’s common sense, but it wasn't the root of their problem. They had a good run, a period of almost a year that was filled with more ups than downs, but they were more alike than they were different - Peggy deserved someone who was more into her than his fitness regime, nutritional plan, and what the analysts were saying on The Sports Network, and Peggy was a strong-willed, goal-oriented, kind of woman, endlessly planning her return to England when she finished her Masters. He couldn’t be what she needed and he couldn’t place her above hockey.

And he is over it. He’ll always hold affection for Peggy Carter, but he’s not carrying the kind of torch Sam seems to think he is. Steve just hasn’t found another woman he’s wanted to date since, and he’s not even sure that he’d want to put someone through dating him if he did.

He serves the omelets.

“Can we change the subject, please?”

***

They get in Nat’s car because she always insists on driving. She’s a decent driver, so it’s not something that Steve minds at all. If anything, it’s just her music choice that’s grating. For the most part, it’s drowned out by their easy conversation. Inevitably, it circles back to the new rookie, Maximoff. Natasha’s still talking about how well her line worked in pre-season, and he doesn’t blame her. They’ve been looking for a winger to play alongside Clint and Natasha, and it’s been difficult because they jive so well to begin with, but Pietro seems like he can keep up, even if the standard routine is to send rookies down to play with the Marlies for a season or two for conditioning. He’s a good player, though; he scored twice in the pre-season and posted good stats in the OHL before he was drafted to the Leafs in the first round. And there wasn't hype, not initially, but the pressure began to build when the kid arrived in early September at the airport, accompanied by Hall-of-Famer, Erik Lensherr.

Privately, Steve would consider that Erik Lensherr is to hockey what Jesus Christ is to Catholicism. Which is to say that even in the early days, he was untouchable, almost divine. Erik Lensherr was the complete player. He scored, he assisted, he fought, and he was dynamite on the penalty kill. He led the USA to a gold medal, and the Rangers to four Stanley Cups. Legend has it that he was offered the “C” halfway through his first season, but turned it down and months later it went to his linemate, Charles Xavier. But legend has a lot of stories about Erik Lensherr, including unfounded tales of his volatile temper - plausible for his capricious on-ice behavior - and excessive drinking - unlikely due to his compulsive work ethic. Steve knows it’s a commonly held belief that it’s extremely difficult for players to transition to life beyond hockey, and that’s the reason so many former players find ways to still involve themselves in the NHL or hockey-based organizations, but Lensherr was different.

When Erik Lensherr quit hockey, he was in his prime. At 32, he was on the verge of renegotiating his contract with the New York Rangers, and on the cusp of his fourth Stanley Cup win. Steve, a lifelong Rangers fan, remembers it as a bittersweet victory. In game 2 of the second round of the Playoffs, in the middle of a line brawl, Don Moore of the Boston Bruins leveled New York Rangers left-winger Charles Xavier with an illegal hit. Xavier went down and one of Moore’s teammates accidentally fell on top of him, and the hit in combination with the fall and added pressure resulted in three fractured vertebrae, superficial bruising, and a concussion. He was stretchered off the ice, and up until then, Xavier had been the Rangers’ points leader for the season. The Rangers made it their rallying cry to win it for Xavier, but it was Lensherr who carried the extra weight, clinching the series against the Bruins and sweeping the Red Wings in the semi-finals. Steve will never forget the sportscasters calling him a “man possessed”, so motivated by the desire for the accolade that would cement him as the greatest hockey player of his generation that he was able to steamroll anything in his way. The Rangers won the Stanley Cup series that season in five games, and in the fifth, Lensherr scored a hat trick against the Ducks, stayed on the ice long enough to hoist the Cup, the “A” on his jersey gleaming against the ice. It’s the kind of moment boys like Steve only dream of, but Lensherr’s expression remained grim, accepting the Conn Smythe with five words: “I don’t deserve this.” He walked off the ice, and no one ever saw him again. He rejected the Rangers’ contract negotiations, and wouldn’t hear offers from any other team.

Steve isn’t the kind of man to routinely check Twitter, but he’s seen pictures of Lensherr, and up close their resemblance is plain as day. Pietro is the spitting image of his father, with silver hair. Falsworth asked, just last week, if Pietro grew up in the same house as _the_ Erik Lensherr, and Pietro’s mouth drew tight. He said no, and they all left it at that.

When they hit the morning traffic, Steve sits in the passenger seat, smug that he got them to leave so early. Around him the car horns are blaring and Nat and Sam carry on a conversation Steve lost track of ten minutes ago.

In a perfect world, Steve thinks to himself, it takes 31 minutes to get from 1 St. Thomas Street to the Mastercard Centre, maybe 28 minutes, since they’re in Nat’s sleek but practical silver Mercedes GL Class SUV and she drives like she did a stint drag racing. In a perfect world, Steve amends, it takes 28 minutes to get from 1 St. Thomas Street to the Mastercard Center _and_ Steve is the one driving. They’d be listening to Frank Sinatra instead of whatever house music Natasha is playing in the background.

“Cap?”

“Huh?”

“I said are you bringing anyone tonight? Tony says Pepper can organize a car to come by and pick ‘em up before the game if she wants, she just needs an address.” Pepper is Tony’s girlfriend, and a tech mogul in her own right. She somehow finds time between running a multi-billion dollar corporation to attend all of Tony’s home games, and to boot, is probably the most organized person any of them know. It’s a wonder she ended up with someone like Tony, who’s arrogant, impulsive, and obnoxious. He’s got a big heart though, no one can fault him that.

“Earth to Steve,” Sam waves a hand in front of his face from the backseat. “What’s up with you this morning, man.”

“Ah,” Steve scratches the back of his neck, “It’s nothing? Just thinking. I’m not bringing anyone.”

He fights the urge to flinch, realizing he’s become the guy he always feared he’d be. He has no family left, and all his friends are hockey players.

Nat pulls into the parking lot and that saves Steve from having to pursue further conversation. Small miracles.

***

In the locker room, players are flooding in by the minute. They get there first, expected since Steve is captain. Nat’s already in full gear, and so is Sam by the time Coach Fury says “Ice in no more than 20 minutes” and walks out. When Tony walks in, the rest of them are already donning shoulder pads and lacing up their skates. He throws his practice gear down and turns toward the three of them. He’s unshaven but smiling so broadly, even by Tony’s standards. Tony’s played defense for the Leafs for longer than Steve’s been on the team, and after working together for a few years, Steve’s come to know the myriad of Tony’s moods. This one lacks Steve’s own feeling of suspicion that usually comes when he can deduce mischief from Tony’s expression. The real anomaly isn’t that Tony’s so genuinely happy. It’s game day, and they’re not the only ones excited – Thor’s been going around the room since he got in, clapping everyone on the shoulder and exchanging greetings. No, Steve is just surprised to see that Tony’s so happy at this hour. It’s not even 10am, and the first rule of playing on a team with Tony Stark is knowing that he is not a morning person.

Tony Stark, Toronto Maple Leafs defenseman, sweater #43, does not like mornings. _Does not like_ , Steve knows, is the understatement of the year. Tony glares at the morning sun like it’s personally offended not only him, but also his girlfriend, his mother and every other person he’s ever held dear. He scowls at the alarm clock like vampire might react to garlic, or like it’s the sole cause of everything evil in the world – poverty, world hunger, losing in a Stanley Cup Final, and rush hour traffic in the Greater Toronto Area. Steve knows this from first-hand experience because he and Tony once spent a five-day road trip rooming together when Sam was on injury reserve. No matter how many alarm clocks they set the night before Tony would invariably sleep through every single one of them, or on the off-chance where he woke up between the third and the seventh alarm, or when Steve moving around the room woke him up, they would bitch at each other without cause until they both descended to the communal areas like a pair of cantankerous geriatrics. After they returned to Toronto, Steve had to quietly beg Maria to ensure that whoever was in charge of assigning rooms never assigned them as road roommates again. For the good of the team.

So the fact that Tony is smiling like he just won the fucking lottery has Steve’s nerves jumping. He can tell the happiness is infectious before Tony even opens his mouth because he can sense Clint vibrating in anticipation beside him and can see the quirk of Bruce’s lips.

“Spit it out, Stark.” Natasha.

“I’m engaged.”

Thor’s brow furrows. “You are not already married?”

Tony and Pepper have been dating for so long that they may as well be.

Clint lets out a laugh. “An actual human woman agreed to marry you?”

 “Pepper, no less! Didn’t she say ‘no’ the last seven times you asked her?” Sam whoops. Tony asks Pepper to marry him about three times a week. “The woman is absolutely perfect, and way outta your league there, Stark.”

“I’m not denying that, Sammy, but it’s true. She asked me to marry her, and I said yes.”

Bruce is the first one up, left skate laces still dangerously dragging under the blades, but throwing his arms around Tony’s shoulders and exclaiming “Tony, that’s amazing! Congrats!”

Steve starts laughing, he’s so damn happy. He waits for Bruce to unlatch himself from Tony before doing the same, more carefully ensuring that he doesn’t step on Tony’s brown Italian leather shoes with his skates.

“Congrats, Tony, honestly. Pepper’s a goddamned saint, and you’re a lucky man.” Tony looks like he’s maybe going to burst from pride. As Morita’s clapping Tony’s shoulder and shaking his hand, Clint turns to the rest of the room “Hey, we got a d-man here who’s getting married, man! Let’s show him some love, boys, or you might not be invited to the wedding of the century.”

Steve laughs with the rest of them and pulls the practice jersey over his head, fastens his helmet, and leaves to make sure he’s the first one out on the ice. He doesn’t want to jinx it because the season hasn’t even started, but there’s something about this feeling he’s getting, like things are about to fall into place.

But there’s no sense in thinking about things like that before they even begin. His stick meets the black of a puck and the rest of his teammates join him for morning skate.

***

That night, the Leafs take the ice for the home opener against the Ottawa Senators. Fury has briefed them in the locker room of the Air Canada Centre and the top line is ready to start. The team skates out onto the ice to stand to attention for the national anthem and they line up as they always do. They have a ritual, a routine built up from last season, and they go through the motions. Steve’s right blade touches the ice before his left, and when Natasha gets on, she gives a slight courtesy as if about to pray. They take the same spots they’re accustomed to.

Steve stills on the ice, standing for _O Canada_ , his linemate Riley Carter on one side, and Clint on the other. Nat stands beside Clint, as she always does. She leans over before the tenor starts.

“Take a look at those banners up there, boys. It’s going to be our names up there soon.”

Steve feels a shiver run through his spine that has nothing to do with the chill of the arena. They smoke the Ottawa Senators 6-1 that night. Steve gets the first goal on a power play, and an assist on Sam’s wrist shot that comes after they’re already up 3-0 on the Sens, in front of a screaming sea of blue, a full arena.

***

They win against Montreal and Winnipeg, lose to Calgary in a shootout, and edge past Colorado in overtime before they leave their homestand. All in all, it’s not a bad start. And then they hit the road.

They get served their first regulation loss of the season to the Philadelphia Flyers and by the time they get back to the hotel room, Steve doesn’t want to do anything. Once upon a time, Steve had the option of rooming alone - Captain’s privileges - but since Natasha joined the team, she gets the lone single. Tonight, he’s sharing a room with Bruce, who’s locked himself in the bathroom for a bit. It’s unsurprising. He let in 4 goals that night, so he can’t be feeling too good about himself. Hell, Steve isn’t feeling good about it either, since 3 of Philly’s goals went unanswered, and if Falsy hadn’t scored in the last 5 minutes of the third period, they would’ve got shut out.

Steve is lying prostrate on the mattress closest to the windows. He knows that they’ll lose a lot more throughout the rest of the season, it’s inevitable, but still, he sometimes forgets how the first cuts just a little deeper. It’s fine. It’s the next game they care more about anyway.

***

When they get to the TD Centre, the air in the visitor’s locker room is humming. It’s almost reminiscent of their first night of the season, except they’re in enemy territory and his team is looking for revenge. It’s undeniable, and he knows this because it's what he wants as well.

It went like this: the Toronto Maple Leafs make the Playoffs for the first time in a long time. It’s Monday night, they’re up 4-1 over the Boston Bruins nine minutes into the third period of Game 7, and all signs point to them adding to an already expansive history with a third straight win to seal a comeback from a 3-1 series deficit.

And then there’s collapse. But Boston’s always been a rough team, and usually a good one too. Tony gets riled up, and spends 2 minutes in the penalty box. On the power play, Boston’s Brock Rumlow scores off a pass from James Barnes. And then it’s an onslaught. Steve remembers feeling like he couldn’t decide if he was in the car careening off a cliff, or a bystander powerless to stop it. Boston fires three straight goals – two with their goalie off for an extra attacker – and the game ends in regulation at 4-4. In six minutes of overtime, Becker scores the game winner, effectively terminating the Leafs’ season.

Steve tries his hardest to forget the game, but reviewing the tapes feels like an autopsy that carves open his insides and never leaves his head for long. Thor, normally so untroubled, has his mouth set in a grim line - that says he’s not the only one. They’re dressed and ready to enter the ice when Steve stands up, making his way into the middle. He’s the captain, no one looks at him questioningly.

“You’ve been waiting all summer for this, I’m not going to bore you with a speech. Let’s fucking get ‘em.”

There’s a war cry behind him as he steps through the tunnel. No one ribs him about the swearing, which he so rarely does.

****

The game isn’t fun for anybody. Boston is relentless and rough, and that’s the kind of character they’re known for. After the first period ends 1-0 for Boston, they make their way back into the dressing room, Pietro storming through and ripping off his helmet.

“Fuck!” He yells.

Some of the slightly older guys around Pietro try to calm him, Morita and Dum Dum amongst them. Sam and Riley are talking hushed in a corner, probably planning ways to get around Zemerov, who’s been a brick wall in the d-zone.

Steve makes his way over to the rookie.

“What’d they call you in the O, kid?”

“Quicksilver.”

Steve blinks. He’s familiar with hockey names. “That’s long.”

“Quickie, sometimes.”

Steve shakes his head and lets out a chuckle. “Gotta love hockey nicknames.”

Pietro lets loose for a second and smirks before catching himself.

Slightly quieter he says “they’re always fucking like this.”

“Kid, look, they are and they’ll be this way for a long time. That’s not changing. So you took two penalty minutes? It’s your first in the NHL and you’ll get more. But the way to beat Boston isn’t by playing like them, it’s playing better than them, so get your head out of your ass and don’t let them get to you. Got it?”

“Got it, Cap.”

“Good.”

Midway through the second period, Pietro scores on the end of a beautiful team play by Natasha and Falsy. From the bench, Steve can see his disbelieving laugh as his players on the ice barrel into him. Pietro looks over at him with a brief nod. Steve nods back. That, he thinks, is when he knows they’ve got the game.

But it’s not that easy. They end the second period 1-1, and the game continues on the same tense pace. The pressure doesn’t abate, and while it’s something Steve doesn’t think about on the ice, he later imagines it can’t have been a particularly entertaining game for spectators, not with both teams’ lack of shot accuracy, and every body to bang against the glass.

In the end, Steve scores the goal that wins it for them, four minutes before the end of the game. He’s taking a face-off to the right of Bruins’ netminder against James Barnes. James was drafted the year after Steve, but he remembers him from the few games they played together during World Juniors before Barnes broke his wrist. Another Brooklyn boy. One who is playing out of his natural position. They lock eyes at the dot, but when the ref drops the puck, Steve wins the face-off easily, skating around Barnes and Rumlow to shoot it into the top left corner. Steve’s not sure he scored until the goal horn sounds, and in the flurry of on-ice activities, he forgets to really celebrate it, and just beats his fist twice against the C on his chest. His teammates are skating up to him in celebration, and as he makes his way over to salute his bench, he notices Rumlow and Rollins surrounding Barnes.

Steve thinks he slows down, or maybe time does. Rumlow looks furious, despite the fact that he’s equally responsible for Steve’s goal, and Barnes’s eyes, so electric on the ice not two minutes before, look hard and emotionless.

“What, you’d let him fuck you too, like he just did on the ice? You’re gonna get benched, Barnes.”

It’s a shock to Steve’s system because he can’t imagine talking to one of his own players that way. It’s a gross abuse of power and he’s not sure which of them is going to throw the first punch, Barnes or Rumlow. Steve hasn’t fought a single time in his hockey career, but if someone’d made the comment Rumlow just made to him, he’d be tempted to take a swing. Barnes doesn’t, and Steve can’t help but wonder if he’s grown so used to it, or if he’s just a better man than Steve is. 

Everything happens quicker than it seems. He does the fly-by salute to his own players, and four minutes later it’s final - they take home two points.

***

They win against the Rangers, and then they lose miserably to the Pens to cap off a road trip that ends split in points. Objectively, Steve knows that they’re not playing too poorly at all because October ends with more wins than losses. But there’s no better way to put it: they just fucking suck in Pittsburgh. They look disorganized and haggard and it’s like everyone forgets how to backcheck. They fall to stupid penalties and there’s no one to blame but themselves when they lose 7-2.  Even Sam looks utterly defeated and Thor looks like he’s faltering. Clint’s gone from the locker room, having picked up an injury in the second period, and so Steve is waiting a little anxiously for a text that’ll tell him how long Hawkeye will be out for. He’s not ashamed to admit he’s grown more than a little comfortable with how well their lines fit but chemistry like that is delicate – remove one factor and substitute it with another and it can all go to shit.

When the team gets back to the hotel, he goes straight to bed. So maybe, Steve knows, that he’s taking this loss a bit too hard but his anger is not irrational. Steve fucking knows that Goose - one of their goalies - played the last period and a half with an injured right arm, he fucking saw him trying to shake out a cramp while the rest of the team was focused on a consolation goal Morita scored early in the third. So maybe he’s a little thankful for the two days of rest he’ll get alone in Toronto when they touch down the next morning because he doesn’t have time for people who sacrifice their health to prove a point on the ice. He’s seen firsthand in juniors what aggravated injuries can do to guys who are too stubborn to sit out sixty minutes. They're not playing with him now.

He sees Bruce’s shadow on the walls and it looks like he’s climbing into the other bed but Steve isn’t in the mood to talk. Their shared silence is a kind of camaraderie that speaks volumes.

Steve dreams, and in those dreams he sees silver.

 

NOVEMBER

* * *

Things start to fall into place. 

Steve slides back into familiar routine. In the mornings, he and Sam go running through the U of T campus. The weather starts to turn, but it’s a creeping change this year. It gets cold, but not yet cold enough to wear jackets or the hoodies they like to wear when they run through Philosopher’s Walk in the Annex. Maybe one day, after hockey, Steve will take some art courses in the city and paint like he used to, before sport consumed all his spare time. He tried to get back into it in the summer, but either he lacked inspiration or motivation. Maybe he’s just not that good anymore. But he’d paint this, he thinks. After all, it’s nice here – scenic with the fallen leaves strewn across the grass, enclosed by the Royal Ontario Museum and university colleges. A little bit of green in the city, where the path itself isn’t what Steve would call winding, but it’s got enough of an incline that after nearly an hour he can hear Sam’s laboured breathing. They slow down.

“Come on, man!”

“What?”

“I don’t know what your summers are like, but I swear I never see you get tired.”

“I sleep well, Sam. I work out.”

“And you say that like I don’t. I’m just saying, it’s like you got some kind of super-soldier serum in you.”

 “Alright, old man,” Steve chuckles and speeds ahead.

“Old, what – Steve! I’m only two years older than you!”

***

The 3rd marks the start of a four-game homestretch.

October wasn’t what anyone would call a rough start, but it’s always better to be home and Steve knows there are some kinks that management still has to work out, goaltending being one of them.

Their goaltending hasn’t been bad, just inconsistent. Being a month into a new season isn’t an accurate barometer, but Fury’s been playing a goalie tandem between Bruce Banner and Gustav “Goose” Larson, and while goalie tandems can be a sustainable practice for a few months, that timeshare usually doesn’t pan out. Fury thinks the tandem keeps both goaltenders rested and hungry for more, but columnists have already started with the debate on whether the kind of 1A/1B split can breed restlessness and instability. If it were any other kind of player, egos would get in the way, but NHL goaltenders are a different breed - calm and unflappable, sometimes to the point of being downright eerie.

 “Steve,” Natasha says, interrupting his blank study of his tv screen, “you know my neighbor, Andrea –“

“No, and I don’t want to.”

Goose is in the crease tonight, and they take on Boston again, this time at home.

***

There’s 6:56 left in the second period, down 3-0 to Boston, and Steve is on the bench. From behind him Steve hears Fury turn to a suit and ask, “What the motherfuck is wrong with him? He’s a fucking sieve out there tonight”.

He calls for Banner.

“Coach.”

“Banner, get on the ice. Not like you can embarrass us any further, at this point.”

There’s no doubt Fury’s being unreasonably harsh, but fuck they’re already down three goals against the Bruins, and they shouldn’t be. Steve fucking gets it. Boston is short some of their starters; Barnes was unavailable come game time and they’re absent one of their d-men and still the Leafs haven’t slid a single goal past. Prognosis: not good. There’s an unspoken pressure to prove their last win against Boston wasn’t a fluke.

Bruce trades in his cap for the cage and gets on the ice. BANNER, 30. As Larson is coming off the ice, dejected, they bump the top of their sticks in a clear signal: good luck out there.

Fury shuffles the line and Steve is back on the ice. He takes the face-off and wins it, but just as Natasha is about to make a pass, Boston intercepts and comes barreling down the ice in a rage of black and yellow. Steve doesn’t think, just skates as fast as he can back to his crease to defend when he hears it.

“YOU WANT THIS? YOU WON’T FUCKING LIKE ME WHEN I’M ANGRY.”

Steve sees the exact moment Stetsov registers the words and falters slightly, stick just off the puck long enough for Steve to swipe in and get on the counter. He finds space and passes to Thor, who scores five-hole between the goalie’s legs.

3-1 and it’s game on.

Thor nets another in the third and the goals don’t stop coming. By the end of the night, Sam has a power play goal to his name and Steve has two assists at the end of the night. Nat scores one as well. With 60 seconds left to play, Bruce makes a glove save on the penalty kill that stops Boston from getting the equalizer and makes him the number one star of the game.

Bruce isn’t new to the league, but he’s never quite had a game like this. The reporters flock for the post-game interview and obviously, they rush to him first. After a game-changer like that, Steve doesn’t blame ‘em. Banner was a brick wall out there for them – pad save, stick save, the whole nine yards. And Banner, ever the archetypal nice guy, takes a question from the kindest face in a wake of vultures, and that’s Miss Betty Ross, who laughing, obviously a Leafs fan, says in her charming cadence:

“Bruce! What the hell was that?”

Bruce isn’t one for the camera. He stammers and nervously flits his eyes away from the bright light.

“That,” crows a very sweaty Tony Stark, slinging his arm across Bruce’s shoulders, “was the Incredible Hulk. You guys didn’t hear the shit this guy was talking out there.”

Betty laughs.

“So you’ve got the Hulk here, and Captain America a few stalls down. Is Coach Fury creating a Stanley Cup contending team of comic book heroes?”

Steve almost wants to tell her to shut up. They all know it’s too early in the season to make a definitive statement like that. Tony just winks, and it’s classic Stark.

“Avengers, assemble.”

***

Steve can’t keep the smile off his face. It’s a game he won’t forget any time soon, and he hopes it’s a show of things to come. It’s not that he wants to take every game down to the wire like this, but he can’t deny that it’s exhilarating, that it feels good to win, to prove everyone, including himself sometimes, wrong. His team is resilient.

He’s nearly the last one out of the locker room and as he’s walking the lower halls of the ACC toward the parking garage he sees James Barnes.

The difference between now and every other time he’s been in the same space as Barnes is that Barnes is in a suit. It’s grey, tailored, and obviously team-sponsored. Steve would know since he’s got so many similar ones. Barnes’s hair stops him from being mistaken for administration; it’s long, curling beneath his ears, and more visible now than it’s ever been beneath his helmet on the rink. Barnes’s expression is just as guarded as it was last time he saw him on the ice, mouth slightly downturned, and eyes giving away nothing. He doesn’t look sick, but he does look downright miserable, and Steve feels the urge to call out to him. He doesn’t have the first idea what to say.

“Barnes!”

The man in question turns around, confused. “Who the hell are you?”

Steve strides closer and sticks out a hand.

“Steve. Steve Rogers.”

Steve hasn’t thought beyond this. They don’t know each other, which is weird for two elite NHL players from the same city, and he doesn’t have Morita there as a buffer. He’s pretty sure Morita’s played with Barnes before, in the OHL, and Falsy probably has too. He doubts Barnes remembers him from WCJ, and sometimes Steve’s nearly eidetic memory has an unsettling effect on people. On the flip side, it’d be impolite to ask why he didn’t play, and because he didn’t, there’s no way Steve can compliment him on his on-ice performance tonight. He remembers Barnes getting reamed out at the TD Centre by Rumlow and wonders if it has anything to do with that, or if he should bring it up. Once again: also, likely rude. Belatedly, he realizes he’s tired and regrets the conversation. He should’ve kept walking like any other person would have done.

Barnes is the one who winces at the awkward silence. “Good game. I have to go.”

He stalks off so quickly that Steve barely has a chance to process the interaction before Barnes is disappearing from his line of vision.

***

Bruce’s hot hand doesn’t cool until the end of November.  They lose only four times, one of those’ in a shootout, and they’re riding high on a string of wins. On the 27th they’re out in Anaheim after completing a 5-1 routing of the Anaheim Ducks. They don’t have a game until the 30th in Dallas so some of the guys are going a bit hard at it in a nearby bar, under Sam’s watchful eye. Steve’s sharing a room with Clint on the circus trip, and at Clint’s insistence they’re staying in and ordering pizza, which suits him just fine. There’s a knock.

Natasha’s behind the door when Steve opens it a few seconds later. Her arms are empty, but she gestures with a thumb over her shoulder to Pietro, carrying four boxes.

“Brought our food, boys.”

She struts over to Clint’s bed, and flops on her stomach. Steve sets a Hawaiian pizza on the bed between Hawkeye and Nat. Pietro is still hovering awkwardly near the door.

“Is it cool if I tag along with mom and dad tonight?”

“You don’t have to ask,” Steve replies. It’s his first year in the NHL, sure, but Steve is trying to foster a comfortable environment on the team. He’s almost disappointed that the rookie felt the need to ask.

“About the nicknames you do,” Nat chirps. “Don’t want to give Clint any ideas about anyone calling him daddy.”

“Hey, who said I’d be into that?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Barton,” she says, voice like pure honey, “I didn’t realize there are things you weren’t into.”

“Too much,” Pietro whispers, eyes wide in horror.

“We’ve got a rookie here, guys.”

“You’re right,” she deadpans. “Sorry, Pietro. I feel like Steve’d be more into that anyway.”

It’s immature but Steve flicks a pepperoni at her from his bed. Clint catches it easily and goes back to flipping through the hotel’s channels. He stops on hockey. With the time zone, it’s too late for any other games but they’re counting down the month’s highlights.

Number 3 is a goal from Florida’s Logan Howlett, who dekes three Dallas Stars players to score five-hole. Howlett’s 44, his hair and beard flecked with slivers of silver, and half the guys in the league now actually grew up watching him. He may not be as good as he was in his prime – when he won the cup with Lensherr and Xavier on the New York Rangers – but he still puts up impressive points in a show of reliability and physical fortitude.

Pietro claps his hands as they’re showing the replay.

“Imagine playing that long.”

“Kid, you just started your career two months ago,” Clint laughs.

“A career like that…” Steve’s on Pietro’s side, here. Total awe and respect. “I used to love the Rangers, you know?” He says to no one in particular.

“Of course you did, you’re America’s golden boy.”

“Damn, I wish we caught this from the beginning. One of us could’ve been on here.” Pietro, again.

Pietro’s cocky, sure, but his excitement for everything is infectious. Steve doesn’t want to sound too full of himself, but after awhile playing you just learn to tune your own skill out, project that pride onto other people, or cease caring about a highlight reel at all.

“If I had to guess who makes #2… or maybe #1,” Clint says during commercial break, “I’d have to say Hulk in that game earlier, against Boston. He was incredible, it’s gotta be him. Unless they showed him earlier, I don’t know, man.” He’s polished off his pizza, and he makes a move for a slice of Nat’s. She instinctively moves her box closer, letting him.

Bruce is not second on the highlight reel. It’s James Barnes, and it’s a hell of a snipe that he makes in a split second through traffic, from what looks like an impossible angle. It’s sweet, Steve has to give him that. His own style is more blunt, basic. He doesn’t know if he’d be capable of _that_. From everyone else’s approving noises, he’d guess they’re all thinking that.

Clint whistles.

“That’s a beaut, eh Cap?”

“Absolutely.”

“Kind of happy he was out that game against us,” Nat says. “Injured, or something.”

“He wasn’t injured. I saw him after the game, he was in the ACC… I can’t explain how I know, but he wasn’t injured – not carrying himself strangely or anything. Maybe late to practice and penalized?” Steve offers.

“You guys know him?” Pietro asks.

“Barnes?”

Pietro nods.

They all shake their heads in the negative.

“Not personally, but you know, both kids from the rough side of Brooklyn.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, his ma was an angel. Had a little sister, too. She used to come to all the games and give out juice boxes.”

“Steve, it’s just like you to remember someone’s _mother_ ,” Clint mocks.

“Hey! She was nice!”

“Whatever, golden boy. He was on your WJC roster, too?”  
  
“Yeah, he was. Got injured though, and didn’t play in the Olympics because of a concussion.”

  
“Is the guy made of glass?”

“nevezeniye.” 

Nat mutters to herself.

“Hey, did you guys see,” Clint starts, but then hushes as the commentator mentions their #1 pick of the month was a shoe-in, enough to shock even the two of them, former career hockey players.

The Toronto Maple Leafs. But it’s not any of Bruce’s frankly spectacular saves, nor is it Thor’s cannon from the centre line. Steve fucking loved that one.

The men on the screen are right about it being memorable though. It’s them – the Toronto Maple Leafs, yes, but more specifically, it’s Clint, and he’s carrying the puck from their end past the center line. He’s being trailed by Buffalo’s Boyle, and as he crosses Buffalo’s blueline, Spencer, on the opposing team, makes an illegal hit that sends him flying into the boards. Not even a second goes by before Natasha, and you can tell it’s Natasha by the 9 on her blue sweater and the way that Spencer fucking dwarfs her, tackles the guy and starts throwing punches so hard that Spencer can barely defend himself, let alone land his own punch. And it’s not for lack of trying. The ref separates them, and Clint comes to hold Nat’s arms back, Pietro lurking near the bottom of the screen. Steve remembers she spent five minutes in the box for it, but it didn’t matter, they killed the penalty and trounced Buffalo anyway.

Pietro slow claps. “I will never forget that as long as I live. You’re a fucking shark. Or no, that’s my dad… you’re like. I don’t know, Natasha. Something else that’s vicious.”

Nat waves a hand dismissively.

“I’m just saying… People must’ve given you shit for it, right, being a chick in the NHL. But you’re so good, man. Some of my friends from the O ask if it’s weird playing with a girl on my line” – Steve tries to resist bringing a palm to his face, but he can see Natasha’s suppressing laughter, so that’s good at least. He might consider scheduling an informal talk with Pietro on how to dismantle internalized casual sexism – “But I can’t even tell! I mean, until you take off the helmet, obviously, but you’re tough, and you’re a good liney, and any team’d be a fucking idiot to not put offers for you, you know.”

“Shut your mouth, Quickie,” Clint’s voice is a bit hard. “She’s got my back.”

“Aw, Barton,” Natasha jokes. “We’ll always have Buffalo.”

 

 

DECEMBER

* * *

 

Steve loves holiday parties. Sure, he sees his team just about every goddamn day, but they’re _his_ team, and they’re all here in Tony and Pepper’s massive house, dressed in ugly Christmas sweaters. Steve himself is wearing the blue and white Leafs holiday sweater to which Tony yelled ‘cop out’ when he went over to greet his A. Steve doesn’t care. They beat the Capitals just last night, and everyone is loose and cheery, mingling with a drink in hand.

Pepper’s outdone herself, as usual. Once, before Steve was drafted, he’d heard they used to take turns hosting. There were rules to the thing, as always: no rookies, no apartments, and no shop-talk. But then it came around to Tony’s turn to host, and the tradition came to include no expenses barred. Between the two of them, it barely registered as a dent in the pocket, and anyone could tell from Pepper’s face that she loved the planning and execution of the festivities. Their mansion was disguised as a gargantuan gingerbread house, and the fake-frosted windows left no discernible sign that it had yet to snow this year.

Steve thought he was on-time, but apparently most of the guests arrived early. He’s speaking to Thor, who is in a frankly heinous Santa sweater, when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Cap,” Sam says, “You’ve _got_ to try this eggnog.”

“Small sip though, Steve.” Riley chimes. “Small sip.”

He feels like Sam’s eyes are challenging him. He accepts the proffered round glass, and takes a swig of the eggnog within it. He has to stop his eyes from widening too far.

“Wow.”

That was Tony’s doing, and there’s no way anyone doubts it. It’s delicious, sure, but very unlike Pepper to put so much rum in it.

Clint comes to stand in front of them. He’s in a sweater that says ‘Nice’ with a checkmark, cheeks flushed from the cold. He must have just got here. “That,” he points a finger at Steve’s glass, “is deadly. Watch out.”

He looks around at everyone. “Thor, your sweater… it’s incredible. I hope you’ve given thought to growing out your beard.”

“Is not suitable length?”

“Nah it’s fine, just… Steve, where’s your date?”

“Flying solo tonight, man.” No one says ‘as usual.’

“Sucks, man. Even Sam brought Marcy.”

“Damn right I did,” Sam says proudly. “She’s over there talking to Jane. You guys met Jane, right?”

Steve has, and she’s lovely. Jane is a Canadian scientist Thor started dating just over the summer. A google search a few months back told Steve she was so incredibly intelligent that he was downright intimidated when he joined the couple for dinner in September, and he’s a man who has gone head-to-head with Howlett on the ice. His trepidation was unfounded; she’s one of the most down to earth people he’s ever met.

‘Naughty’ joins their enlarging group.

“Steve, where’s your date?”

Sam flits his eyes between Nat and Clint, wearing matching ‘Naughty’ and ‘Nice’ sweaters respectively.

“You do know he just asked that.”

She doesn’t look like she cares.

“So he doesn’t have one? Maybe it’s better that way, in case you haven’t figured out.”

“Figured what out?” Riley asked, honestly curious.

“Oh my god, men are so naïve. There is mistletoe. And it’s everywhere.”

Steve resists the urge to gulp. It’s not that he’s even embarrassed, really. There is absolutely no one at this party, he thinks, that he wants to kiss. It’s probably the feeling, he guesses. Like people are trying to make him feel lonely for not having a girlfriend, despite the fact that he _knows_ some of them are single. Hell, for all her wannabe-matchmaking efforts, Natasha herself has been unattached for as long as he’s known her.

Thor doesn’t try to hide the fact he’s thrilled. “I must find Jane,” he says before stalking away.

“Cap, Lillian is here.”

“Lillian?” Steve questions.

“Am I missing something? Who’s Lillian?” Sam asks.

“Lillian, from accounting. You’ll know her she’s the one with the tongue piercing.”

Steve flushes a little at that, he can see Riley from the corner of his eye, peering at him curiously.

“I don’t think that’s really his type,” Riley says.

“In that case, try to avoid the mistletoe, Steve.”

***

Ironically, the first people to get caught under the mistletoe - aside from Pepper and Tony, the latter who makes a dramatic show of dipping his fiancée in a kiss – are Natasha and Clint. It’s to Steve’s absolute delight, and maybe, he thinks, to the delight of everyone else who notices them foolishly walking through the doorway together. Given her warning, Steve would’ve thought she was too smart for this, but most of Natasha’s actions are planned, anyway. Steve sees it from across the room where he’s standing with a few of the guys. It’s Pietro, who is closer to the door, that yells out “Mistletoe!” His vocalization contractually binds them for a kiss.

Steve is too far to see their expressions, and Riley says as much beside him.

Natasha does this as she does everything else, with a spectacular amount of grace and flourish. She grabs the collar of Clint’s holiday sweater, but instead of dragging him down, merely lifts herself onto the points of her toes, and presses a lingering kiss to his cheek.

“Damn,” Sam whispers. “Does anyone else feel cheated?”

“Is Clint blushing?” Tony says, louder. “Please tell me Hawkeye’s red like a fucking tomato.”

Steve shakes his head. He loves this goddamn team.

***

In the next game, they scrape by with a 2-1 win over the Hurricanes.

Steve scores the game-winning goal early in the third period.

It’s the last goal he scores that year.

***

“Shit!” Steve shouts when he’s back in front of his stall in the locker room.

They’re down 2-1 to the New York Islanders on the eve before Christmas Eve. They’ve only played one period but despite the fact that Steve’s had more chances and shots on goal, the puck can’t seem to find the back of the net.

“Don’t call it a slump, man,” Riley says.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

But just before the second period ends, Riley gets stretchered off the ice and he doesn’t come back. He went down hard, and it wasn’t the other guy’s fault, but the fall didn’t look so good, and there’s no chance the team is finding out how long he’s gone for until after the game.

It isn’t a slump, Steve thinks, it’s a curse.

***

Natasha and Steve have a fledgling tradition. It’s in its second year and will probably last until either one of them starts seriously dating, but for now, it’s enough. Natasha’s nicknamed it “Orphan Christmas.” Steve just prefers to call it “Christmas”, but what can you do?

It’s 11pm and she’s sitting cross-legged on his couch on Christmas Eve in green plaid pajama bottoms and a black tank top, and he’s wearing a similar outfit with red plaid pj pants.

“I can’t believe we’re matching.”

He doesn’t point out that given they wear the same jerseys night on and night off, they match more often than not. Not to mention, she and Clint have actually taken time to actively plan their outfits to match, but whatever, they’re not talking about the team tonight. Not Tony, not Sam, not Clint, and especially not Riley who is out for the season with a broken leg.

“It’s plaid,” he shrugs.

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s the Canadian way.”

“Neither of us are Canadian, Steve.”

“Be quiet and eat your noodles. Ready?”

“Yippee-kay-yay, motherfucker.” She smiles and he hits play.

***

 “Steve,” she whispers, while Hans Gruber is pretending to be a Nakatomi employee.

“Nat,” he hisses, “this is literally the best part.”

“You said this about at least five scenes.”

“Then stop interrupting the movie.”

“I guess you don’t want to hear about Sharon, then.”

He levels her with a look.

“Not even a little bit.”

Sometimes Steve catches himself thinking that if he fell in love with Natasha, his life would be perfect. She's objectively gorgeous, she's smart, and she's a hell of a hockey player. But he's yet to fall in love with her, and he doubts he ever will. Maybe he likes what they have - an uncomplicated friendship, like surrogate siblings or the best friend you find that feels like they've been there your whole life. Maybe he's just into brunettes instead.

 ***

They win against Winnipeg at home on New Year's Eve.

Steve doesn’t score, but he finds comfort in the fact that it was a team performance, their first convincing win since Riley got placed on the long-term injury reserve.

Thompson, who left the bench mid-game, isn’t in the locker room afterward. Fury is though, telling them the GM traded Thompson and a draft pick to Boston for James Buchanan Barnes.

Steve’s so exhausted he doesn’t think about it until the next day, and sure as hell doesn’t make it to the bar with a few of the guys and Nat. When he gets home, he falls asleep on his couch, the white leather smooth and enveloping.

***

Steve dreams about a showerhead.

It’s the one he’s familiar with, the one in his master-suite. Gunmetal silver, with hard water pressure. That’s just how he likes it.

The knowledge that it's his is instinctive - it’s something he hears before he sees and he follows that sound.  The shower is running when he steps into the bathroom, and he takes notice of that first, the water on and someone else beneath it. The fogged mirror gives nothing away, and the steam in the room tells him it’s running hot.

Their hair is dark and falls right below their ears at the nape of their neck. They’re rinsing the shampoo out of their hair, head bent slightly back and large hands coming up to ease the suds from the dark brown strands. Steve doesn’t register the sight as unfamiliar. In the dream, Steve doesn’t think twice about the very real fact there’s no way the figure in his shower is female, not with hands nearly as big as his own.

He just leans against the doorjamb, and watches.

“Got any room for me in there?”

He wakes up sweating. When he checks his phone he realizes it’s a new year.

 

 

 JANUARY

* * *

 

The locker room is never exactly chaos, but it's lively this morning as Steve walks toward where his jersey, #19, is hanging at his stall.

"Anyone see Barnes yet?" Clint asks to the room at large.

"He's in with the GM and Fury. He'll join us mid-way through practice, they said."

"I can't believe Boston gave him up... first round draft pick and everything."

“Talk about a blockbuster trade.”

"Does it matter that they did? We need to fill a spot on the topline and he's a hell of a shot."

"Hey man," Sam starts. "It's not a spot, it's Riley's."

"Yeah," Duggan says, "You're right, but all I'm saying is does it have to be this guy? I've heard things about him."

"Dug, we all have. He's from New York, first round draft pick, shit-eating grin, we literally just went through this.

"All I'm saying," he starts again. He's grandiose about it, like he's imparting some selfless knowledge to the rest of the team. Steve has to pinch his fingers on the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache he woke up with this morning. "Is we're already the team with the first woman in the NHL - no offense, Nat, you know we wouldn't have it any other way - but do we really have to be the team with the first faggot too?"

Steve’s kept quiet all morning, but he thinks about Rumlow's words to his own teammate on the ice, and he's off the bench in his stall in record time, right skate still unlaced.

"I don't give a fuck about what you heard, Duggan, I don't give a fuck about what it was like the Blues locker room, any homophobic, sexist, or racist shit doesn't fly here.” Steve is overreacting, he knows he’s overreacting, but he can't stop it.

“Cap, calm down,” Sam whispers, putting a hand on Steve’s forearm. But this is something he's wanted to end for a while. It’s not just about Barnes, but he doesn't want Barnes coming into a team that's just like Boston. “This doesn't affect how you treat him, and it sure as hell doesn't get back to him. He's going to get the same treatment everyone else got, and if you have a problem, then you can talk about it on your own time, not on mine. That goes for all of you, by the way. Got it?"

"Got it, Cap," Duggan replies timidly.

The rest of the team affirms it.

***

Barnes catches up with the rest of the team when they're already on the ice.

Steve falls into line with him.

"Listen, it's sort of a tradition here that the Captain takes the new guys out for dinner. I'm thinking an early dinner tonight, since we play tomorrow?"

Barnes just gives him a look like he's from outer space.

"I'm busy."

Steve waits.

"Unpacking."

"Right."

"Right."

***

Steve and Riley had been playing together for three seasons now; Barnes is a whole different beast.

For one, he seems to be on the same wavelength as Steve. The first pass Steve aims for misses his new teammate completely, but Barnes doesn't look annoyed - he's a professional, after all, and a little bit of adjustment is expected. Steve's determined to make this work though, and instead of looking to where Riley would be, he starts looking to where Barnes needs to be and finds him already there.

They break the stalemate in the first period when, 14 minutes in, Barnes sends a beautifully timed saucer straight to the end of Steve’s stick, and all he needs to do then is shoot. Straight into the top right corner.

Steve laughs, almost in disbelief. He grabs the metaphorical monkey on his back and throws it to the ice before Sam and Tony rush to celebrate with him.

Steve believes in reciprocation, so in the next period he whoops loudly when Barnes tips in one of his shots on goal. That pass came from Steve and he flushes with the pride of something he's done a thousand times before. This feels different.

Barnes is new to the team, and he doesn't throw himself into celebrations with his new teammates. What he does is look right at his Captain and salute from beside the net where he scored before bumping fists with Thor and Sam and the rest of their bench.

Their line is on fire. They win the first game of the new year with a whopping 6-2 scoreline. Steve gets the first star, and everyone forgets all about his December slump. That's just hockey, and so it goes.

***

“You were great out there,” Steve says, smiling. He’s pulling off his helmet beside James Barnes in the locker room.

“So were you. First star,” Barnes replies. He's right - Steve was undoubtedly the player of the game, but Barnes himself got the second star, and his voice is completely devoid of emotion.

“So about that dinner, I-”

“Didn't I already say no?” Barnes snaps quietly.

Steve can accept a “no”. He's never heard it in this context, but he won't argue. He frowns and turns to talk to Sam.

Barnes must turn around, too, because next thing Steve hears is his unfamiliar voice jokingly asking Natasha where in hell can someone get a good taco around here?

She yells something in Russian that, knowing Natasha, probably means _fuck you_. Semyn laughs, and Barnes cackles from the stall beside him.

“Take out your wallet, you're buying me dinner, kukla.”

Steve tries not to take it personally. He thinks he might have heard that they know each other from a hockey camp in Russia, even if Natasha said she didn’t remember him.

***

They're lining up for the national anthem. Tonight they play the Oilers. That doesn't faze him; he's knows they're going to win. He can't explain it, except that he can feel it in every bone, joint, and muscle in his body.

What almost threatens to send him off kilter is his new teammate, joking around with Sam, of all people. He didn’t even notice they got along. They're laughing like they've developed some sort of close camaraderie in the, oh, week? since James Barnes became a Toronto Maple Leaf.

Steve used to think there wasn't a guy on his team he couldn't get along with. James Buchanan Barnes seems hellbent on proving otherwise.

Hours later it doesn't matter. They win and Steve forgets about everything by the time he knocks back the last shot. He can't remember what number he's on, and it doesn't matter because their next game is not for nearly a week.

***

They're eating late night shawarma in a popular joint on Yonge street. It's conspicuous for only hours after a win, but they deserve the treat. It's Steve, Nat, Tony, Thor, Sam, and even Bruce showed up. They've all mostly sobered up and Nat’s bringing up the Sharks’ hot streak when Steve asks “what's Barnes’ deal?”

“What do you mean?” Bruce asks. “He's been perfectly nice to me.”

“Yeah, Barnes is a good guy.” It's Tony, now. “He's the only one of you pussies who can take it and dish it back just as good. Excluding you, obvi, Nat.”

Steve really needs to talk to his team on how they casually throw around language.

Sam frowns. “What's this about? Did he say something?”

“No, it's just -” Steve flails for words and his hands gesture by his chest to convey his confusion.

“Is this about him turning down your request for captain-to-lackey bonding time?” It's not just that, Steve wants to say. It’s that all his other teammates seem to get along with Barnes just fine, including Duggan who’d been a little hesistant before he stepped in the locker room. It's about the lack of eye contact, celebration, his failure to so much as say a word to Steve. He'd settle for a “nice pass” or “pass more, you fucking jerk” or anything at this point. But Barnes moves around Steve like he's part-man and part-machine, and that doesn't work for Steve, who has always been somewhat of a people pleaser. Natasha barrels on past him. “Look, Steve, if you're so keyed up because you need to get laid I know this gir-”

Steve throws a piece of meat at her. He might be more drunk than he thought. The table erupts in laughter and chaos and there's not a single person there who is thinking of him as any sort of Captain, Perfect or not, right now.

***

God, the game is boring even to them. They're losing 1-0 to the San Jose Sharks in California, and Nat wasn't wrong, they've been on fire. But both teams are playing a strong defensive game, and the Leafs haven't been capitalizing on their chances and Barnes in particular is being selfish while Sam’s been out there basically starving for a pass in his direction.

Steve bottles his rage until they get into the locker room during the intermission between the second and third period.

“Would it kill you to pass out there?” Steve hisses at Barnes. He's keeping his voice low. He's never yelled at a teammate during a game and he doesn't intend to be the kind of captain who starts now.

Barnes has other ideas.

“Me?” He all but exclaims. “I'm sorry, Captain, but I haven't seen you pulling your weight on the backcheck at all.”

He thinks he hears Sam whisper to Thor _shit, these guys are rooming together?_ And they are, but Barnes was so quiet last night that Steve pretty much forgot.

“Are you fu- look I don't know what your problem is, but we’ll sort it out later.”

Barnes snorts. “Score the game winner. Then we’ll talk.”

Tony gets his 500th career point tipping in Pietro’s shot and that sends them into overtime.

Steve doesn't score the game winner, but Barnes does, and he sure as hell gets the primary assist on the goal. Their fists bump as the buzzer echoes around the arena and it feels like absolution.

***

They play the Kings in two days and no one even mentions going out. If they do, Steve declines. He goes back to the hotel with most of the other team - he can see the jet lag on their faces, Pietro’s in particular is showing bags that speak to his age and inexperience.

When they get to their room, Barnes closes the door behind him. Silently, Steve gets ready for bed as Barnes heads straight to the shower.

By the time he walks out of the bathroom, Steve has his back propped up on the headboard, lower half under the covers, not bothering to fake sleep. He’s got his reading glasses on and a book in his hand, and he's not waiting for Barnes to open his mouth, exactly, but he can't sleep knowing he might be disturbed. Even if the room’s lamp had been shut, the bathroom light seeping under the door would have kept him awake anyway.

Barnes stands by the lamp, dim light illuminating the muscles of his abdomen, his pectorals, and the edge of the tattoo that clings to his bicep. He’s looking in Steve’s general direction, before he turns his head downward, runs a hand through his hair, and sighs.

“I do remember you, you know?”

“I’m sorry…” It’s not what Steve expected. If anything, a throwdown, but Barnes sounds soft, like he’s trying in vain not to disturb the silence of the room. Steve sits up a bit straighter and resists the urge to squint now that Barnes has shut the light.

“From the juniors. When I was coming off the ice, you’re the one who said it, right - ‘end of the line,’ and then you went and did it - won the gold. I remembered that.”

Steve says nothing. He remembers it too.

“What I wanted to say was that I’m sorry.” Steve can hear the rustling of his roommate untucking the sheets of his own bed by the window and settling in. “You treated me kindly when I didn’t know you and all I’ve done is give you shit since I joined the team. Sam called me out on that.”

“I don’t need Sam fighting my battles.”

“This doesn’t have to be one.” Steve feels the smile tug on his lips despite himself. “Anyway, I told Sam you’d say that.”

“You’ve known me less than a month, and it’s not like we’ve gotten along, you already think you know all about me?”

“I think everyone knows all about Captain America.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

There’s silence for a bit.

“For the record, it’s not you.”

Steve snorts. “That’s a little cliché, don’t you think?

“It don’t change what’s true.”

“I’ll bite. Why’s it you?”

“Boston didn’t run like this, okay. Rumlow didn’t give a fuck about knowing his guys or taking them out to dinner, or whatever it is you wanted to do that first day. You fell into line there. It’s obvious your guys respect you it’s just… you’re going so out of your way for me, some guy you don’t want to know.”

“Look, it sounds like bullshit but it's not - you’re part of the team now.”

“I had no idea, given the huge goddamn maple leaf on my blue sweater.”

“Get used to it, pal. Anyway, it’s proven that team bonding improves on-ice chemistry.”

“I don’t think we need help there.” Steve can hear the smirk in his voice, and it’s nice, he’ll admit. Their #19 and #24 jerseys even hang nicely together, side by side in the locker room. He responds with a genuine smile, even if it’s in the dark and neither of them can see the other beyond a vague outline of bodies in the moonlight. It bleeds into the room through the too-sheer curtain that does very little to keep out the glow of city lights.

“Yeah... we’re that good, eh?”

“Real damn good.”

“Well, that’s you then, you’re an asset to the team.”

Barnes’s voice is harder when he says “I’m done being an asset. It’s _us_ , I don’t do it alone out there.”

“You won’t,” Steve replies vehemently.

“I think I’m starting to realize that. Good night, Steve.”

 “Good night, James.”

 “It’s Bucky, actually. That's what my friends call me.”

 “Good night then, Bucky.”

 Steve turns to face the door, and he’s asleep before he has the time to review what the team needs to improve upon after tonight’s game.

 

*** 

It’s not until nights later, in a hotel in Anaheim with Bucky snoring softly in the bed beside his, that Steve dreams again. It’s the same scene and showerhead once again, that’s where the dream starts, in his steam-filled master suite bathroom.

 The stranger’s body stands tall in the shower, and the muscles of his back are more clearly defined than Steve remembers them. It plays out again once more like a movie reel: his hair is dark and falls right below his ears to rest at the nape of his neck. His head is bent back slightly and his large hands lift to ease the suds from their dark brown strands. This time, Steve notices the man might have a tattoo.

 He leans against the doorjamb, and watches.

 “Got any room for me in there?”

 The man is turning around now, and Steve takes in the water sluicing off his chest, the strong pectorals, erect nipples, his own eyes are making his way over the man’s collarbones, Adam’s apple, and -

 Bucky’s pillow hits him square in the face.

 “Jesus Christ, man, your alarm went off ten fucking minutes ago.”

 Steve blinks blearily. He’s hard under the sheets, and their friendship is too new to risk Bucky noticing.

 He doesn’t. His face telegraphs a weird look at Steve, and he heads into the washroom while Steve wills his arousal away.

 

FEBRUARY

* * *

 

They beat Minnesota soundly on the first of February, and Steve had a 4-point game. He's a popular guy in the locker room that night, but he’s itching to get outside of it. He can feel the red indents from the helmet he just took off, and his every muscle is tired and begging for a bed to collapse in. He's been answering questions from every reporter with a smartphone and tonight they seem neverending. He's grateful though; it's a sign the team is doing well and Steve wants what every other player in the room wants: a spot in the playoffs.

"The media's on you all the time, eh." Steve thinks Bucky's trying a little too hard for generic statements but it's been mere days since the boiling tension between them simmered into something inert. Steve gets playing it safe.

"Yeah, I don't want to say vultures, but some days it's not far off."  
  
"They were pretty bad in Boston too but here it seems constant. I read something about Clint the other day and..."  
  
"They're always writing that kind of shit about Clint, and he saves our asses all the time." Steve fumes. “When it's good, it's good. And when it's bad, well.” _You kind of wish you were anywhere else_ goes unspoken.

“Yeah.” Bucky keeps his eyes downcast.

"I don't want to say you get used to it but you kind of do, and then you learn to give it back, and if you're going to dish it back, make sure it's something that puts everyone else on your side."  
  
"Right. How very Badlands of you, Steve Rogers."  
  
There’s a reference here Steve isn't getting.

"The Cheltham Badlands?"  
  
"No" Bucky laughs. "What the fuck is that? I'm talking about the Springsteen song."  
  
Steve hasn't heard it in years and can barely recall the chorus. Something in his face must betray that.  
  
"It's arguably one of his most self-explanatory songs, but, you know. The chorus is about not just adapting to what you have, but proving yourself amongst it.” He shrugs like he's trying to pretend he spent absolutely no time thinking about it.  
  
Steve gives a soft laugh. "Sure Buck, just like the Springsteen song."

***

Steve knows that he shouldn’t listen to panelists and commentators. This is the unspoken rule you’re taught early in your career. Steve’s always been bad at following rules, though. He leaves Sportsnet on in the background as he’s falling asleep.

“So, the Leafs, Bill -” the commentator on the television begins. “What are we thinking? Playoff potential?”

“Well, I think what we’ve seen from them has been promising. They have a solid top line now with Barnes on the wing and they’re going places. January was good for them - more ups than downs, and they have scoring versatility throughout their roster. Mostly solid defense and - wow - can we talk about Banner? That skate save he made against the Blues last week. Who would have thought he’d show up big for the Leafs this season? His stats otherwise were average at best, and he’s not particularly in his prime.”

“Yeah Bill, but they were rocky in December and if something happens to Rogers they’re going to have a real issue centering that top line. You said it - Barnes is new to the team. And there’s no disputing his talent, but he’s not the only one on the team who’s new. The Leafs have rookies and a roster not exactly used to playing with each other. Their face-off percentage, Rogers notwithstanding, is a liability.  I’m not counting them out, but, history, huh? Let’s not get our hopes up - the Leafs haven’t won the Cup since 1967, and that’s long before these guys were even born.”

“This is new blood for sure, John -”

Steve drifts off before the commentator gets to his playoff predictions.

 

***

Then Steve’s life gets good. That’s the best way of putting it. Clearing the air with Bucky is everything he expected it to be, and once again the team unit functions like a well-oiled machine. He'd go as far as to saying they're friends now.  It’s like taking a huge weight off his shoulders - thoughts about whether or not he’s a bad captain don’t circulate through his brain, and his line is clicking. So is everyone else’s.

Steve’s life is so good, he starts drawing again. It’s nothing big and he hasn’t moved on to painting or even inking yet, but he starts carrying around a sketchbook and filling it when he has the chance.

They’re on the tarmac about to fly the charter to play the Sens when he takes it out for what must be the second time that week.

“Oooh, whatcha got there, Cap?” Tony says from the seat behind him, leaning forward to make sure he’s heard.

“Sketchbook. Nothing exciting.”

“Well, what are you drawing?”

“I haven’t decided yet, it’s a blank page.”

“How ‘bout you, Grease Lightening?”

“I just showered hours ago, Tony.” Bucky sounds annoyed, but that could just be his regular cadence when asked a question of any sort.

“Whatever, whatcha got? Smut?”

“Poetry.”

“God, you guys have gotten boring since you started getting along.”

Steve shrugs and feels Bucky do the same beside him. They go to their respective books, and they’re in Ottawa within the hour.

***

They win in Ottawa. And then against the Oilers at home. And then the Jets, and the Flyers, and when they play Montreal on February 13th, they win again, and they don’t just win - they shut them out to score four unanswered goals, and it feels good to win like this, at home in front of their own fans, against a bitter rival.

Will Montreal make them pay for it their next meeting? They can try.

But right now, Steve has half the team in his living room and several bottles of wine uncorked. It’s the usual suspects, with the addition of Pietro, back against Nat’s shins and red-faced from alcohol. They’re in Canada and he’s nineteen, so Steve rests assured with the knowledge that he’s at least not enabling underage drinking.

Bucky’s there as well, right by Steve’s side. Steve’s in a simple v-neck but with the heat cranked befitting of mid-winter, the energy of the room, and the warmth emanating from where they’re pressed side-against-side, Steve feels almost like he’s running a fever. Tony wasn’t joking when he said they were attached at the hip.

“Steve,” Natasha starts, hands fanned out in front of her and voice magnanimous. “Felicia Hardy. Thank. Me. Later.”

“The Leafs TV girl?” Tony calls out.

“She’s an absolute fox, Steve.”

“She knows her shit, too.”

“No.”

“What’s this about?” Bucky asks.

“Current speculation polls it at over a year since the good ol’Cap got laid.” Tony answers.

“So you’re trying to get him laid?”

“No, Tony don’t misrepresent this,” Natasha interjects. “I’m trying to set him up. Steve’s not one for the casual one-night stand, he’s looking for _love_. And it's right on time for Valentine’s Day.”

“I never said I was looking for love -” Steve struggles to find the right words.

“ - He just wants an emotional connection before he jumps into bed with any random girl,” Bucky finishes for him.

“Thank you!” Steve says triumphantly. “That’s exactly what I want.”

“So you’re like that too?” Sam asks.

“No.” Bucky makes a sound that's almost a laugh. “All I need is a warm, w-”

“There are _children_ ,” Tony shrieks, jokingly moving to cover Pietro’s ears.

“I am nineteen! What is with you guys? I’ve had sex before!”

“I was going to say bed!” Bucky laughs.

He was not going to say bed.

***

Marimba blares loudly in his apartment. There’s muffled swearing. Steve blinks awake. His ringtone isn’t marimba, he doesn’t have an alarm set, he’s not swearing, and he’s sure as hell not currently cooking what smells like sausage links.

Right. That must be Bucky. Steve had offered up his spare bedroom last night after they couldn’t figure out how to work Uber. If Natasha was there she would have called them geezers, but she had already left and so she missed Bucky’s litany of curses and Steve throwing a hand against Bucky’s left pec, uncontrollably laughing at something that was only barely funny in the sober light of day.

Steve pads out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. He’s in just his boxers but fuck it, they’re hockey players. They see each other in little enough inside the locker room, as it is, even if nobody ever looks. Sure enough, Bucky’s got his back to the breakfast bar and is simultaneously monitoring the sausages on the stove and swaying his body to the music he’s got playing from his iPhone. It’s rat pack jazz, something that Steve, personally, loves. He’s wearing his own black boxers and the t-shirt he was in last night, over top of it Steve’s Toronto Maple Leafs apron that he proudly bought himself downtown at a shop where the cashier was all-too-happy to be cashing out the _Captain_ of the Toronto Maple Leafs.

“So, what do you say, am I the best wife you’ve ever had, or what?” Bucky turns around and winks.

Steve wants to tell him his joke is outdated and probably unintentionally misogynistic, but instead he gets momentarily blindsided by the thought that Bucky looks _good_ in that apron. Maybe it’s his blue eyes. Maybe it’s the fact he’s cooking food for Steve and Steve is starving.

“There’s nothing on my plate or in my mouth right now, so that remains to be seen.”

Bucky dimples and turns, removing the omelets from the pan with a spatula. “Hope you don’t mind,” he says. “I was getting hungry and figured you might be too. Didn’t want to wait for your lazy ass to get out of bed.” The sausages fall onto the plate next. Then Bucky reaches over to the fruit bowl and puts an orange by each of their plates. It’s the best sight Steve has seen in days and it’s only out of sheer gratitude that he waits until Bucky removes the Toronto Maple Leafs apron, folds it, and takes the adjacent seat, before he digs in.

“I wake up earlier than you most days.” Steve says as a belated response. Then he takes a bite and has to resist the urge to moan. Starving. He was starving.

“Is this what you did for all your teammates?” Steve says in between bites. “If so, I’m having you over all the time.”

“No.” Bucky says, with a weird look upon his face. “Actually this might be the first time I’ve cooked for anyone other than myself. We didn’t really get along, actually.”

This would be a perfect time, Steve thinks, to bring up Rumlow. Instead he just smiles at his teammate and says “Guess it’s a good thing you’re here, right?”

“Oh yeah, I mean, otherwise how would I absolutely kick your ass on the PS4, huh?”

***

It's nothing short of a miracle month for the Toronto Maple Leafs and so continues what Steve’s heard Bucky privately call their unholy points streak.

By the end of the month, after their home ice win against Pittsburgh, the playoffs are looking very likely.

On the plane to Washington, the team’s spirits are so high that Steve thinks they’re all very, very well aware of how they’ve thus far managed to surpass everyone’s expectations this season. They’re not planning on stopping that, either.

But shop talk is over for the night. It’s Clint’s birthday and they’re all singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” and even Bucky has his body turned in contraposto, head turned over his shoulder to talk loudly with Bruce behind him.

“Yo, Clint, where’s your lady this trip?” Someone yells from the back of the plane.

“Got her right beside me,” Clint says, and puts out a hand for Nat to high five. She does, and their palms meeting makes a satisfying clap.

“You guys are disgusting.” Steve chirps. He knows they’re not even dating, no matter how much everyone thinks they should be. “When’s the wedding?”

“Whenever you’re willing to finance it, Steve. We can have it this weekend. I can find you a plus-one, leave it to me.” She smirks and nonchalantly calls out “Hey Barnes, you got a sister?”

“That I’d want dating this guy?” Bucky gives a good impression of incredulous. “Not a fucking chance, Romanoff.”

Steve can’t help the blush that rises to his cheeks.

***

By the time they check in to the hotel and get to their respective rooms, it’s already late, they’ve already had dinner, and everyone’s settling in for the night.

Bucky’s got his shirt off and his pants unbuttoned. He's freshly shaved and cleaning his hands on a wet cloth.

Steve’s got the bed closest to the bathroom, he’s got his sketchbook out and he’s drawing some sort of contraption. A metal arm. Not a prosthetic though, more like a steampunk invention. He has no idea where he got the inspiration from.

“She’s pretty persistent, huh?”

“Hmm?”

“Natasha. With finding you a date.”

“Ah, yeah.” This isn’t exactly Steve’s favourite topic of conversation.

“Why doesn’t she just date you herself?”

He sets down the pencil and sketchbook.

“It isn’t like that between us.”

“Because she's dating Clint?”

“They're just linemates, Buck. They play up to the joke, but she's not dating anyone. Just because she's the only woman on the team doesn't mean she's sleeping with anyone else on it.”

“Hey, didn't mean to offend.” Bucky half-raises his open palms in surrender. “But she really wants to find you a date, man.”

“Yeah… I think she thinks she’s doing me a favour. She thinks I don’t get out enough.”

“Do you?”

“Pardon?”

“Not get out enough?”

“I guess not,” Steve shrugs.

“You guess not? You’re not unattractive and you’re rich.”

“Wow, thanks man.” Steve throws his head back in laughter. “You know, I could say the same about you.”

“No you can’t,” Bucky says with a rueful smile. “I got out too much.”

“Not that I’m complaining, but you’ve spent all your time here with me.”

“In Boston.”

“Oh.”

“Look, I figure I should tell you this before you find out years into our friendship and resent me -”

Bucky’s shifting his eyes and looking everywhere but at Steve. They’ve only been friends for about a month and a half but Steve’s never known Bucky to be this awkward before. Even when they were at each other’s throats, Bucky always held his ground with a certain conviction and self-assuredness. That’s absent now, for a reason Steve can’t think of.

Steve tries to break the awkward silence with a joke, but he’s never been particularly funny. “You’re a sleeper agent for the Bruins, trying to sabotage the team from the inside?” 

“I’m gay.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Yeah, I mean,” Steve moves to swing his legs over the side of the bed, looking straight up at Bucky. “What did you want me to say? Of course I don’t care that you’re gay. I don’t know why you’d think I’d resent you for something like that.”

“I didn't want you feeling like I lied to you. Tricked you into friendship or something.”

“You didn't.”

Steve scratches at his palm.

“Boston - that’s what happened. I can see in your face sometimes, you want to ask me, but you’re not going to, right, because we’re friends and it’s none of your goddamn business. But it’s what happened. I was out with the guys, I got too comfortable, too drunk, and then when I thought no one noticed, I left with a guy at the bar. Some stranger I’d been flirting with; afterward, I figured I was safe just walking out, not calling back. I didn’t realize the guy recognized me. Ran into him a few weeks later, and uh, he made sure the whole team knew. Things kind of fell apart after that. I promised myself I won’t let that happen in Toronto. I won’t fucking do that shit, I won’t.”

“Bucky…” he starts slowly. “None of that is going to happen here. I can’t speak for all the guys but Sam, Nat, Tony? They don’t care. And if someone has a problem with you, they have a problem with me, and that shit doesn’t fly in Fury’s locker room.” Steve tries to back up his tone with conviction and finds he doesn’t need to try hard to mean what he’s saying. He stands by every word of it. He feels like he’d go to war for this man he barely knows. “You okay?”

Bucky lets out a shaky breath and runs his hand through his hair. Steve’s brain short-circuits, and, with his mind still caught on the straining biceps, the long fingers running through wet, dark brown strands, he doesn’t register Bucky moving to sit beside him, putting a grateful hand on his knee.

 

 

MARCH

* * *

 

It's him. Of course, Steve wouldn't have realized it and maybe it hasn't always been him, but the man in the dream is Bucky, now.

He doesn't know if knowing this has made it worse or better.

What he knows is that he can’t stop thinking about it. Somewhat obsessively.

Steve finds himself day-dreaming a continuing sequence of that same scene. He walks into his master-suite bathroom and Bucky’s body is there on display, water running down the muscles of his back, his ass, the red star on his bicep, and when he turns to face Steve it falls on every scar, bruise, and dip on his chest. Sometimes Steve opens his mouth and asks for an invitation. Others, where Bucky stays facing the showerhead and rinsing shampoo suds from his hair, Steve just shucks his clothes at the door and presses his own body tight against Bucky’s, hands skimming those sides, and nose bearing into Bucky’s neck. He feels guilty, rubbing one out in the empty apartment to the thought of his friend who never asked to be the featured star in Steve’s wet dreams, but it's the kind of release that comes easy and so, so sweet.

Steve thinks he'd be willing to bend on his romantic connection rule if it meant their legs tangled up in the early hours of the morning, or Bucky’s lush mouth kissing the juncture where his neck meets his jaw.

And this kind of desire, this palpable - _crush_ , Steve thinks, like he's 15 and not 25, is an anomaly. Hockey has been his life for almost as long as he can remember. Everything he does is dictated by hockey: what and when he eats, the days he showers, the sections of the magazine he reads, everything. For guys like Steve, that’s it. Hell, Steve knows tons of hockey players with dogs, and still he won't get one because he's too worried it'll feel neglected being minded by a dog-sitter while he's on a circuit trip. So if Steve won't get a dog, then he's sure as hell not looking for a boyfriend, regardless of whether it's against one of the many unspoken rules of hockey or not. But he doesn't know Bucky’s deal.

He wasn't kidding when he told Bucky that he'd make sure the locker room didn't have a problem with it but he was perhaps overlooking the many other players - opposing teams, media, fans, organization. There's a lot to consider and Steve knows he's jumping ahead of himself, especially because Bucky never gave any indication he was actually looking to date anyone, much less Steve.

What he blames himself for is not saying “hey, me too,” when Bucky had the balls to come out to him. But that maybe wouldn’t be true, and _maybe_ that’s getting ahead of himself. Steve doesn’t remember feeling this way about any guy, and he’s a man who has been in hockey for the better part of his life. Instead, he was a walking-talking You Can Play ad, reminiscent of the one he did last year, which it's great, it's fine, but it's disingenuous. Steve placates himself with the reassurance that he's still figuring out things. One of his college-bound friends once told him sexuality is fluid. He’ll cling to that if it'll stave off the lingering guilt every time his heart lurches when Bucky winks at him from across the room, or when he notices Bucky’s eyes tighten listening to their teammates tease Steve about the women he's not seeing.

***

Trying to figure out what’s going on with Bucky and his brain doesn’t distract him from his game. Steve is on a 12-game point streak and they start March with a 3-1 win over the Blues that Steve is surreptitiously calling “retribution.” They win against the Rangers and again against the Devils, and sure, they lose 4-2 to the Washington Capitals on the 9th but half the battle is rolling with the losses and improving from them. And Steve is doing just that, stepping up befitting his status. That doesn’t mean the problem just goes away though, because if Steve is good at anything it’s repressing an issue until it blossoms into a beautiful volcano.

Nonetheless, he’s disappointed when he’s a scratch on the game against the Hurricanes. It’s not exactly a surprise, given how Steve called Nick as soon as he woke up to tell him he was feeling ill, but it’s still disappointing. No one wants to be watching from the sidelines when they could be driving gameplay on the ice.

He goes to the game anyway. He may not be able to play but he can sure as hell watch his boys kill it on the ice.

They don’t kill it.

The game isn’t exactly boring - _it’s hockey_ , Steve thinks -but both goalies are good. Bruce makes at least 32 saves and Bobby Drake must be having the game of his life with 45 under his belt. By the start of the third period it’s only 1-0, the lone goal scored by Canes’ rookie Peter Parker. When Bucky scores the tying goal in the third period Steve cheers as loud as anyone else in the arena. Louder maybe, he’s quite invested after all.

***

An hour later finds Steve outside the locker room talking to Sam when Bucky comes out. He shakes his head with a soft smile.

“Of course you showed up, Rogers, c’mon I’ll take you home and make you soup or something.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way, hotshot? Propelling your team to victory and all.” Steve can’t resist tousling Bucky’s wet hair, curling at the ends.

“Pure luck. And whatever, you’d probably burn the water and the whole building along with it, punk.”

“For the record, I’ve been surviving just fine before you came along-”

Sam sighs and smiles fondly. “I remember when you two tykes were at-”

“Go _home_ , Wilson.”

***

Bucky throws his bag down in the spare bedroom and makes his way into the kitchen. He starts rifling through the drawers and cupboards like he pays half the rent. Not for the first time Steve is taken aback by Bucky’s comfort here, among the granite counter tops of Steve’s apartment. He’s relatively skittish just about everywhere else that isn’t the rink.

“I actually don’t feel like doing any of this,” Bucky says from behind the island.

Steve laughs and they swap, Bucky going to sit on the island barstools, and Steve sniffling while pulling ingredients out of his refrigerator. “You’re lucky I like you.” He instantly shuts up like he’s given away too much.

“I’m impressed,” Bucky says, because Steve’s just finished chopping vegetables in silence, and they’re fine-cut and lined up on the cutting board.

Steve makes an “hmm” noise but doesn’t say much else.

“Y’know,” Bucky waves his hand around, “You can make an actual proper meal that doesn’t diverge from the health plan. If you weren’t a hockey player you might actually be good for something, Chef Rogers.” He smirks as Steve stirs the pot.

“Heyyyy,” Steve draws the word out, “I’ve been cooking since before you got here. And I think I prefer ‘Captain’.”

“In bed, or…” Bucky trails off and Steve goes red like the fucking tomatoes he just cut.

Bucky laughs, the jerk.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, couldn’t resist.”

***

They finish their bowls of soup on the couch and by the time midnight rolls around they’ve regressed to bickering over the television remote control.

“C’mon Steve, guest’s choice.”

“Here I was under the impression it was my place. We’re not watching 90 Day Fiancee.”

“Steve, you gotta see this show though. Fucked. Up.”

“No, nope, not happening.” Steve folds his arms and purses his lips. “We’re watching the Patriots highlights, final call. Nothing you can say - or do - is changing my mind, here.”

“Nothing, eh?

Bucky smirks and it’s plain to see that he’s interpreted the words as a challenge that Steve did not intend. He just wants to find out what he missed in relative peace, but before he can recant the challenge he apparently issued, or get real serious, Bucky’s leaned in towards Steve, hands outstretched, and the next thing Steve’s being honest-to-god _tickled_. 

Except that he’s not ticklish. There’s no way Bucky could have known this, so Bucky’s hands are just sort of wriggling against the muscle under Steve’s shirt, as he defiantly tries to elicit laughter. Steve doesn’t pause for a second before grabbing Bucky’s triceps and flipping him, but there’s nowhere further to go on the couch so they land on the floor with a thud. Steve feels the breath leave Bucky’s mouth in a huff, and the abrupt change in scenery does absolutely nothing to hinder them. When Steve gets his fingers on Bucky’s ribcage, he lets out the closest thing Steve’s heard to a manly shriek and then there’s laughter on both sides, with Bucky valiantly trying to get Steve’s hands in a lock.

“This is stupid,” Steve breathes.

“Then give in.”

And that’s never done anybody any good in Steve’s book, so he doesn’t and they squirm some more. Caught off guard by the realization that he’s never done this before, Bucky finally succeeds in grabbing Steve’s hands, and with his thighs manages to change their positions so that he’s astride Steve and pinning his wrists in one hand above Steve’s head. They’re both breathing in harsh, heavy pants and shit, whatever Steve is feeling in his stomach right now is exactly what he wanted to keep hidden.

“Mercy? Do I win once and for all?” Steve thinks he imagines the way Bucky leans so slightly forward, the way his voice gets a bit darker, “What’s my prize?”

And that’s it. Steve scrambles up and pushes Bucky to the side.

“I think my fever’s coming back. I’m going to turn in, Buck.

When he walks from the room he thinks he leaves Bucky in a confused heap on the carpeted floor, but he doesn’t turn around to check.

***

That night, knowing Bucky’s in the next room, Steve can’t fall asleep. It’s a little ironic that Steve spent two weeks obsessing over whether or not he was into Bucky and never thought once about whether it might work the other way around, too. After all, Bucky didn’t grip him hard enough to bruise but he sort of feels like the imprint has been seared into his skin. Every time he looks down at his wrist he expects to see the outline in red, but instead there’s absolutely no trace of Bucky’s fingers. _What’s my prize?_

The more he tries not to think about it the more the visions come, unbidden into his brain. Bucky’s fingers, long, slender, and so fucking talented, the way they grip the hockey stick beneath his gloves. The ostentatious stickhandling Steve knows he can do better than nearly anyone else in the league, and goddamn does he have the work ethic, the hockey intelligence, the knowledge just where to be and how to angle his stick to slot the puck even in the tightest places so that it speeds past to hit the back of the net.

Bucky’s fingers that have been lacing up his skates next to Steve every other night for the past two months, that push back the front of his hair, that bring the glass of whatever poison they choose that night to get them loose and unthinking up to those pink lips. God, they’re the same fingers Bucky jerks himself off with, and Steve wonders if he does it in their shared room on the road in any given city, maybe after midnight, when Bucky knows Steve is asleep and dead to the world.

And yeah. Steve’s tried to avoid it, and his roommates have always been very respectful of him, but guiltily he imagines a scenario in which it’s happened. Roomie etiquette on the road goes only so far: keep your shit to your side of the room, no bringing back girls without warning, and don’t get off midday, but they’re not saints and it’s fine, almost acceptable for a guy to get himself off as long as you keep real fucking quiet. And Bucky would be, but Steve guesses it’s not so silent if you’re listening out for it. So yeah, Steve can picture exactly what Bucky sounds like when he comes; the rustling of the comforter, the shallow breathing that precedes the stiff grunt and muttered, “Fuck.”

Steve calls it a momentary lapse of sanity but it’s exactly what he thinks about that night with Bucky separated only by his bedroom wall; biting his lip with his right hand sliding up his dick while his left twists the sheets.

***

They lose the next two games, but they beat the Jets at the MTS Center in Winnipeg and since they don’t play for nearly a week, they do what any other self-respecting group of twenty-something guys would do on a Friday night: they google the most exclusive club in the city and make plans to get absolutely trashed.

Some of the guys beg off. Sentra has a wife and kid and while Jim is usually good for a few beers and some laughs with the guys, he promised he’d give his wife a call before midnight and nobody is gonna give him shit about it. Thor took a hard hit in the third period so he’s out too, and that’s fine. All good guys, but right now Steve just wants a few shots of tequila and maybe a pretty Canadian girl to make out with before midnight strikes. Obviously, it doesn’t go that way.

Steve offers to buy the first round because someone shouts “captainly duties” and anyway, he’s old enough to have learned from experience that people, or at least Tony Stark, will get more generous as the drinks keep flowing. It’s a little after 11 and Stark has all the rookies listening eagerly to a story about him and Bruce pranking Steve’s room this one time in Chicago, and even he can admit it’s a good story, seriously, especially because Bruce rarely joins in on pranks he usually deems too immature. Plus, Steve’s aware of his tendency to get hysterically angry after a good prank and hilariously self-righteous when he needs to defend himself against Tony’s slander.

The woman who interrupts Tony mid-story is gorgeous in her little black dress; blonde wavy hair, green eyes heavily lined, and legs that go on for miles. From the corner of his eye, Steve can see Sam look anywhere else and Pietro’s mouth drop. Steve doesn’t believe in rating women, but even he can admit that sure, the girl’s a 10 by anyone’s standards. She’s absolutely stunning and she’s staring straight at him where he sits, smack dab in the middle of the team.

“I’m Lisa! Come dance with me!” She smiles brightly and subtly thrusts her not unimpressive cleavage further out. Tony is looking halfway between choking in disbelief and jumping up himself. He’d never do that, of course, but the woman is beyond attractive.

This is what Steve wanted. A gorgeous girl to get his mind off a very different, gorgeous boy. But instead Steve finds smiling kindly and spreading his arms so that they come to rest upon Tony and Sam’s chairs. “Sorry Lisa but I’m playing host to my boys tonight.”

“Come on, one dance,” she winks, “I'm sure these guys won't mind.”

“You know what? I’m good where I am. You have fun though.”

When she leaves, slightly dejected but with no less grace, Clint looks at Steve incredulously.

“Cap... did you hit your head or something?”

And yeah, Steve was thinking the same, actually.

But he shrugs. “I just wasn’t feeling it I guess.”

“Okay, okay, I for one am definitely feeling it! So without further ado, good luck to you my brothers, let’s head onto that floor.”

There’s a resounding “here, here” and the group splits in different directions and Steve is going to make his way to the bar.

***

Steve orders himself a stout and Bucky a rum and coke and they lean off to the side drinking, taking in the action but not really partaking. Steve is more than halfway to drunk right now and he knows Bucky is playing it safe, but he doesn’t have to be celibate. Steve is more than happy to cover for him; tell the guys he went off with a curly haired woman in the direction of the hotel, even give up the hotel room for the night, even if it's not what he wants.

He feels the man in question nudge his side.

“Hey, Cap, dark hair, dark eyes, great legs, checking you out at your six.”

“Not really looking.”

“Well, you’d better start because every girl in this place is looking at you.” 

“I’ve got my sights on something different tonight.” Steve wants to kick himself. This is neither the time nor place, and Bucky deserves so, so, so much better than a poor line in a bad club.

Bucky snorts. “You sure about that? Because your eyes haven’t left me.”

Steve can feel his throat swallow the empty air. Bucky touches Steve’s glass briefly, as if to take a sip, and Steve feels his body move involuntarily toward Bucky, his fingers reach out to lock against Bucky’s wrist, _all intentions laid out on the table_ he thinks.

And drops his hand almost as quickly. He gives a giggle and it sounds more inebriated than he actually is. “I’m so drunk right now,” he lies.

Bucky gives him a quizzical look.

“I’ll take you home then.”

Bucky turns his to walk toward the door, and his loose hair tumbles to fall on his shoulders. Steve averts his eyes purposefully, but he follows, tries to focus on the lights, on Sam and Tony talking loudly at the booth, on anything but how he was _so close_ to kissing Bucky.

***

When Steve wakes up his mouth is dry. Through the open window he can see snow falling, in March, because it’s Winnipeg, and on the bedside he can see a thin book. The spine reads _Crush_. And. That’s not his book. This isn’t his borrowed bed. He can see his hotel bed, it's crisp white sheets still tucked into the mattress, unused and neglected. On his chest hangs an arm, bicep tattooed, and that can only be Bucky’s head tucked into the crook of shoulder, breathing in his sleep, exhaling on Steve’s clammy skin.

Buck. Bucky. Get off me.” Steve whispers, jostling his arm.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice is still rough with disuse. Steve wants to wrap himself in it, never get up, stop hating himself, probably.

“We have to get up, Bucky.”

“Why’re you whispering?”

“Come on, just get up.”

“Steve,” Bucky rolls over onto his back. “There is literally nowhere we have to be. The team flight is not for,” he checks his watch, “Like, four hours.”

“I need to piss,” Steve lies through his teeth. They both know it, probably from the way that Steve makes no effort to move. But the truth is he doesn’t want to lie here so long, the heat from Bucky’s body burning into his own.

After a few minutes of silence, Bucky rolls somewhat gracefully off the bed.

“And yet you don’t look like you’re planning on moving. I’m gonna shower, but you can just lie there. Unless you wanna join?” Bucky winks and laughs at his own joke. It’s every fantasy Steve has had since November in a single question, and he doesn’t answer.

For some reason, it angers Steve in a way even he knows is irrational. He can hear the comforter rustle. He turns and sits up against the headboard as Bucky gets out of the bed and walks over to the ensuite bathroom. They both fell asleep with their jeans still on. He leans against the protruding wall - the blue denim unbuttoned and slung low on his hips - and asks a question Steve doesn’t even hear.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. The water stops running. Bucky moves around him, tries to engage him in conversation, dresses, leaves, and it still takes Steve a further thirty minutes to get his ass out bed. His head hurts and he’s mad at himself for falling asleep between the wrong sheets and being dramatic about nothing.

He doesn’t see Bucky until they’re boarding the plane headed back to Toronto. Bucky’s seated, he’s got that book of poetry open on his lap and a highlighter in one hand, and he looks up at Steve with a grin he doesn’t deserve. And Steve walks past him, resolute. Sam and Bucky are sitting beside each other and Sam asks “what crawled up his ass and died?”.

“He’s been like this all morning. A hell of a hangover, I’m guessing.”

Steve sits beside Bruce in the row behind Bucky, puts in his headphones and repeats to himself _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you’re my best friend, I’m sorry_ the entire way back to Toronto. He takes out his sketchbook and draws nothing.

***

When they play the Lightning, Steve gets another hattrick in the third period. When he gives his post-game interview he’s not thinking about how he hasn’t spoken to Bucky in days, the six unanswered texts on his iphone, or how he’s out of groceries at his apartment, he’s only thinking of about the puck sitting in his stall. He got first star and he could see Wanda, Pietro’s sister, cheering when his third goal - the game winner - went in, one hand in the air and another on a blue cap that never made it onto the ice.

The twins come over after the game and they sit on Steve’s couch until 2am, Steve doesn’t realize it but it’s the first time he’s hung out with Pietro without anyone else on the team, and, he’ll admit, it’s refreshing. Pietro and Wanda are chatty, admiring, and Wanda especially is quick with the quips when her brother gets too rowdy or immature. And it’s a relief, he thinks, to avoid Natasha’s _what’s wrong_ stares, and Sam’s never-ending efforts to talk it out. The man could have been a counsellor in a different life, and distantly Steve thinks that one day, when they all retire, Sam should coach.

But for now, with Pietro and Wanda, everything is easy. They look up to him, he knows, but they’re easy and candid on his living room sofa, making him feel closer to his age than the age he normally feels. They talk about growing up with Erik Lensherr as an absent father, the dog Steve wants to adopt but won’t, and they watch the night’s highlight reel. Steve is more than proud to be on it (not that it’s his first time), and Pietro cheers loudly when the commentator emphasizes the sentiment. What. A. Goal.

***

Bucky likes novels and poetry, and he has fine eye for art, but Steve’s only ever been good at making it, and he’s always had a shit memory for anything that’s not corsi.

He thinks he read this line at some point in middle school.

 _Nothing gold can stay_ , was it?

His heart drops to his stomach when Bucky goes down clutching his wrist near the end of the second period in their game against the Detroit Red Wings. He goes into the tunnel and doesn’t come back for the rest of the period. Steve doesn’t even get to watch Bucky’s back as he leaves, doesn’t have the time to worry about his best friend, because he’s getting in position for a face-off in the offensive zone. Nat takes Bucky’s spot on the top line and Steve loses the draw.

Bucky comes back in the third period but there’s something off about his game – he’s making some of the worst plays Steve has seen from him, and he can’t seem to string a pass together. Thor gets into a fight minutes later, but they can’t rally for a win, not even a consolation point. They drop the game after that one, too.

***

The warm spray of the shower hits his back as he runs through plays in his head. His mind is stuck on Bucky in the third period, but Steve reminds himself not to begrudge him – they’ve all had shit games at some point or another. But this kind of dwelling is a habit he hasn’t quite shaken, though God knows he’s gotten enough flack for it from Tony and he’s mostly resisted these last two years. By the time he wraps the blue towel around his waist, he’s calmed down and more than half the team has cleared out of the locker room.

They’re quick to do that after a loss. Jim and Dum Dum are throwing the last of their shit into their bags getting ready to leave, and Tony is talking to Bucky at the opposite end. Steve admires Tony for many reasons, not least of which is his experience and his attitude – losses don’t seem to faze him; the kind of man who takes a beating and gets back up. Steve is like that too, a fighter, but Tony, well… Steve can’t deny that Tony’s attitude is a little more positive and his jokes always act as such a comforting buffer. Steve doesn’t have that ease or sense of humour. Barnes and Stark make an odd pair right now, the latter on the bench with his back against the wall, fully-dressed in his grey suit. Bucky is in boxers, and, Steve notices, his hair isn’t wet. It should have been obvious he wasn’t in the showers but Steve was in no mood to notice. Steve’s walking toward them as Jim and Dum Dum walk out. Dum Dum calls “rough luck, buddy, let me know how it heals.”

Bucky nods minutely and that’s when Steve notices the splint. The second it catches his eye it’s like he has tunnel vision.

“You’re hurt.”

Bucky moves his wrist to fall behind his thigh, out of Steve’s view, but he stops with a wince.

“Wrist sprain.”

Steve nods.

“Did they say how long?”

Steve hates the tone of his voice right now, but it’s like he doesn’t know how to act. They were _so fucking good_ before Steve botched it up, and now he sounds like a robot. Sure, a playoff run is on his mind, but Steve cares. He cares _so fucking much_. He clears his throat. “So, 2-3 days then?”

“They’re thinking 2-3 weeks, Steve.”

“That’s a four day, max, Buck.”

“I… I aggravated it in the third period.”

And fuck, that explains everything.

“Did you know?”

“It hurt.”

“And you didn’t ask to come off?”

Bucky tilts his chin defiantly. “I didn’t think I had to, I could play through it. I wanted to win.”

“You think I don’t want to win every game? You didn’t think that resting two fucking periods to make sure you can play the next stretch of games would help the team?”

“Steve,” Tony warns.

“No, Tony, let him say whatever he needs to say.”

“This is fucking elementary, Bucky! Fuck! You don’t need me to tell you this.”

“That’s rich, Steve. You haven’t told me anything – we haven’t spoken in what feels like weeks. I’m getting one word text responses like penance for a crime I didn’t know I committed, and now you’re going to ream me out for what? Thinking I’m well enough to play?”

Tony is standing now and looks ready to step in, but Steve’s not the kind of man to throw a punch, not ever, certainly not at an injured man, and certainly not at a friend.

“Walk away, Barnes.”

He does, but on his way out he calls: “You don’t have to ask me twice. I’ll go, and you can stand there and keep ignoring your problems.” The door to the visitor locker room falls shut behind him.

Tony gives him a sympathetic look. But he says “what’s up, Steve?” and doesn’t stick around for an answer.

Steve stands there a long while before he drops the towel and changes into his post-match clothes. He didn’t have to do any media briefs and he’s glad for it, but more than anything he wishes he had had more control over himself. Had clasped his hand over Bucky’s shoulder, on the uninjured side, and said “tough draw, Buck. Stay home and rest up.” He would have followed Bucky back to their shared hotel room and they would have watched whatever plays on the late-night channel. Before Bucky went to bed Steve would remind him to look after his wrist.

But Steve stays in the locker room until the janitor kicks him out, and then he wanders the streets between the arena and the hotel until he gets the guts to scan his keycard at their door. When he opens it, it looks like Bucky has been asleep for hours.

***

Steve isn’t saying he’s going crazy without Bucky, but his performance dips.

The thing is, he loves all of his teammates, and yeah, they brought Jim Morita up on the wing, and he’s great, and so is Nat, and Dum Dum, but they don’t get him like Bucky. Not on the ice, where Bucky connects to the end of his pass like together they tied the puck to a string.

And their power play suffers because suddenly no one else can play beside Steve and that’s not the way a Captain is supposed to play. The line juggling is only fucking with consistency. He’s not getting goals and he’s been dismal with providing any assists.

When they lose in a shootout to Minnesota, their fourth straight loss, Steve books it out of the locker room faster than the reporters can reach him. He goes straight to sleep and ignores texts from Tony, Nat, and whoever else tries to reach him.

***

The thing is, Steve hasn’t seen, texted, or spoke to Bucky since the blowout. Scratch that – they’ve barely spoken since the plane ride, since Steve hid behind a hangover and his own senseless temper. Steve knows that the mistake was his, but he can admit he’s not used to being in the wrong and he doesn’t know how to fix it. All he knows is his penchant to let his mouth get ahead of his brain, and his burgeoning _crush_ is getting in the way of his hard-earned friendship with Bucky. Maybe they should talk it out, but Steve can’t risk the chemistry of the team on what might be a passing infatuation. Steve has never hooked up with a man, and honestly he can’t remember a time where he even wanted to. But the thought is there constantly, and sometimes it’s not just the sex he imagines, but a chaste kiss, an arm slung across broad shoulders – that, they used to do. There could be dozens of worlds where them hooking up would be no big deal, but that’s not this one. Two relatively high-profile NHLers trading handjobs in the team-fronted hotel room? Steve doesn’t want to think about the media heyday that’d cause. He doesn’t want to think about the questions, the hurled insults. He was sure Bucky would think the same thing, having experienced it in Boston.

So maybe they haven’t spoken in weeks, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.

 _How is Bucky?_ He texts Nat, who’s still crashing in Bucky’s spare room. Just like she’s been doing every night since Bucky fell wrist-first onto the surface of the Joe Louis Arena. It should be Steve, he knows.

***

Bucky comes back against the Penguins and Steve thinks: this is it. They’re finally going to get out of their goddamn slump. But they don’t connect on the ice. Steve sends passes and Bucky misses them by mere inches. Pietro takes three penalties in the second period. Tony commits a turnover that leads to a Pittsburgh goal. Bucky makes to shoot and it clings off the post. They save face when their third line scores, but it’s not enough. They fall to the Pens 4-1 and the month is, blessedly, over.

 

 

APRIL

* * *

 

They play the Pens again. April first, the very next day, at home. Goose returns from injury, and he’s back between the goalposts and the entire team seems fucking deadset on not showcasing a repeat of last night’s loss. They’re scoreless at the end of the first period, but in the second Clint tips in a nasty re-direct, while Thor saves what whould have been an equalizer if not for his goal-line clearance. In the third period Steve gives them insurance with a snipe on the buzzer and it’s game, set, and match.

***

“Aw man, why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday!”

“Sam,” Steve quirks an eyebrow. He then turns to the rest of the team, “Wilson here needs to shut his mouth; it’s not my birthday – Tony you should know better than this, we’ve been playing together for years .”

Tony checks his phone, taps his fingers on the screen a few times, and holds it up like the holy grail. “Nope, says right here on Wikipedia. Steven Grant Rogers born April 1, 1985. You’re 26, kid, Mazel Tov.” The guys holler some more.

“So, how are we going to celebrate, Cap?” Nat drawls.

“We’re not celebrating. Because it’s not my birthday.”

“Or, we listen to Tony Stark, who’s never told a lie a day in his life, and take you out partying,” Sam says.

Steve mutters _et tu brute?_ but it’s drowned out by people throwing suggestions for places to go.

“Nuh-uh,” That’s Clint. “Rogers, we gotta get you laid” he punctuates this with an exaggerated hip thrust and okay, Steve laughs, but it’s for their sake. He loves these guys, but he feels like he’s better off just going home.

“Dry spell as long as the fuckin’ Irish famine.”

“Come on,” Steve quirks his mouth disapprovingly.

“I don’t know, Cap. I think you could stand to get that stick jerked.” Bucky says, looking up at Steve from where he’s sitting in his stall. There’s raucous laughter from some of the guys who’ve been here longer, and stunned silence from the new kids, minus Pietro, like they can’t believe someone would talk to Captain Steve Rogers like that.

Steve’s momentarily shocked, but he can’t help the slow smile spreading. He ducks down, shakes his head, and Steve feels the invisible tension shake off with the droplets from Bucky’s hair. That’s the only reason Steve says yes.

“I guess…” Steve says, low, and lets his sentence trail off.

“Alright, alright. We’re hitting the club and that’s captain’s orders. Say midnight? Bring your girls if you got’em, rookies pick up the tab.”

***

The club’s loud and Steve is dancing with this hot redhead who probably isn’t a redhead at all. She’s tall for a woman and she might have no idea what to do with her hands, but by God, she knows how to work those hips.

He’s drunk enough to nearly lean in and whisper in her ear, see if she’d be interested in getting out of here, when suddenly there are hands on his hips, and someone else’s jeans pressing into his ass.

“I only wanna dance with you.” It’s that low, husky, voice, and of fucking course it’s Bucky. Steve feels himself stiffen a bit in his pants. Fuck.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do, if it’s going to get you to talk to me again,”

The readhead doesn’t even seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t make any indication of it - she just keeps sultrily swaying those hips.

“Follow me to the bathroom, Steve,” Bucky says, and Steve is so, so weak because after he feels Bucky pull away, he waits a minute, maybe less, before he whispers “’scuse me, darling” into the redhead’s ear and stalks off toward the direction Bucky went.

When he rounds the corner, he’s gently pushed toward the wall. Hands grip his elbows and they’re standing nearly completely pressed against each other. Bucky’s eyes drift to his lips and suddenly that mouth descends on his. _Yeah, just like that_ , Steve thinks and his eyes flutter shut.

It’s still Bucky when his eyes open, not a dream but it's just like Steve knew it would be. Bucky presses Steve further against the wall and kisses him hard enough to bruise, and he’s mad, Steve can tell, but there’s wanting and there’s not a chance Steve won’t echo that same desire back. He puts one hand on Bucky’s ass and draws him closer, and with the other jerks his neck slightly so that he can sink his teeth into it, worrying in a bruise that’s sure to last for days.

“Is that what you wanted, Steve?” Bucky breathes out.

There’s gotta be an exit here somewhere, Steve thinks. They leave without saying bye, and they go straight to Steve’s apartment.

***

The great irony, Steve thinks looking back on that night, is they don’t kiss again then. They get in the cab together and are careful not to touch. It’s not just for the sake of the cab driver or the potential media outcry, but despite their kiss and the apparent recklessness alcohol and clubs seem to bring out in Steve, Steve’s not so sure he has that privilege. By the time they get to the condo, any fire between them is gone. Bucky unlocks the door with his spare set of keys, reminding Steve that just weeks ago Steve was so sure Bucky was the missing piece, the new friend who slotted so perfectly into his life that all the years before they met was just time spent waiting. It’s a juvenile thought, but Steve realizes that he did his best to ruin it. They get into the apartment and stand still like they can’t remember how they got there.

Bucky moves his hand to rub the back of his neck. “Look, Steve-“

“I’m sorry.” And suddenly Steve is tripping over his own words to apologize. “I can’t tell you why I acted the way I did, I don’t think I really understand but. I was going through something, and I took it out on you. I froze you out, you didn’t deserve that.”

“I shouldn’t have played that third period. I was just so desperate to prove myself…”

Bucky sounds equally as desperate.

“It’s water under the bridge now, Buck.”

Bucky smiles at him, and it’s weak but it’s there, and Steve missed it.

“Don’t do that again, you asshole.”

“I won’t.”

“We’re good?”

“We’re good.”

They look at each other for a moment, and Steve knows its him who moves first. It’d be so easy to give into the want that floods through his veins when he looks at Bucky, but this is bigger than that. He draws Bucky into a hug and holds him maybe a little too tightly. He’s comforted by the fact Bucky grips just as hard, presses his face into Steve’s neck, nose touching where Steve’s begun letting his hair grow long.

They don’t talk about the kiss, and Steve would rather have this than nothing at all.

***

There’s a Starbucks across the street from Steve’s condo. Steve usually avoids it because there are crowds, and crowds mean people, and really, he’d rather support independent coffee shops instead. But Bucky has been craving a dirty chai all morning; he only told Steve about a hundred times via text. He is the one who suggested they meet at the Starbucks closest to Steve and Steve is just determined to keep reinforcing the patches of where they’ve started to heal. They’re already fixed, Bucky would say, but Steve’s learned not to take a good thing for granted and that’s why he’s loitering by the end of the line, with a cap pulled over his eyes.

“Buongiorno, Principessa!” Bucky says as he comes up behind him. It’s not as loud or vibrant as it is in _Life is Beautiful_ , but they don’t go out with the intention of attracting attention.

Steve’s glare hides behind the sunglasses. “That movie is depressing.”

“I know, but it’s great, and I regret watching it last night.”

Steve can’t help the smirk. They both hadn’t seen it and it was on a list of 100 Movies to Watch Before You Die. But by the end, his throat felt scratchy and Bucky wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that his blue eyes were wet. He hears the digital shutter sound of a phone camera, and he and Bucky both turn to look behind them.

They have to look far down to see the culprit. Standing there looking guilty is a boy who can’t be older than twelve, and his little sister smiling guilelessly by his side. Their mother behind them looks embarrassed and starts to make apologies, but before she can finish her apology, Bucky is kneeling in front of her kids.

“Hey buddy, you a Leafs fan?”

The kid nods his head.

“That’s pretty cool. I was a big hockey fan too at your age.”

“Jonathan,” the mother starts sharply, “what do you say?”

“I’m sorry, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers.”

Steve nearly snorts at the reference of their full names, but Bucky is shushing the kid, pointing to the kid’s cap on his head, and offering their signatures. Steve has never seen this side of him, only knows Bucky on the ice and in the context of his living room, surrounded by faces who are equally – on second thought, _more_ – familiar to Steve. But with these kids he’s a natural and genuine, like he’s spent years of his life minding children, or he’s got a few of his own.

The mother fishes out a pen from her purse and thanks them profusely. Bucky signs it first, and hands it over to Steve. As Steve is inking his autograph onto the fabric of the hat, Bucky looks the kid in the eye and says “I have a little sister too, you know. You make sure you take care of her, never forget that.”

The kid nods solemnly and Steve takes a moment to wonder if Bucky was like that with his sister – Rebecca, he remembers her name is.

By then, they’re at the counter so Bucky orders himself his drink and some iced mango dragonfruit drink for Steve that he swears will make his day. Steve wishes the family a good day and tells them it was nice to meet them, and it’s not a lie. Steve doesn’t mind running into fans and he appreciates them, but he gets anxious quickly and generally tries to avoid that when he gets out of the house. Bucky grabs their drinks from the bar and hands Steve the refresher with an easy smile, and Steve hates how much he doesn’t mind what they do or where they go if Bucky keeps looking at him like that.

***

No one is saying the word that’s on everyone’s mind: playoffs. By the third of April, it’s pretty much a guarantee that the Leafs will make the Playoffs, at the very least with a wild card spot. And with three games left in the regular season, they have the opportunity to up their seed for an easier draw in the first round. And they succeed, instead of drawing Boston, they get Philly, and that’s one team Steve is confident they can win against.

***

The next week they’re in front of home ice about to play the Flyers before 18,800 people, most of whom will be wearing blue and white and still they’ll be only mere shapes beyond Steve’s visor. Bucky and Nat are dead quiet at their stalls, but the rookies are buzzing, and Sam hasn’t stopped tapping his left foot for the last seven minutes. Pietro is moving around the locker room at what feels like 90 mph, and has only stopped to momentarily drill Bucky with questions about what playoff hockey is like. Steve wants to laugh. The kid will find out in a half hour.

Steve doesn’t love the nerves that come with playoff hockey, but he does love the camaraderie. The joint quest, the strength of your team, the knowledge that you need a good one to get through. He scratches his stubble where his beard has begun to grow in.

Morita’s been playing a long time, and this ain’t his first rodeo. He’s lacing up in his corner and, come to think of it, he’s one of the few who has won a cup before, along with Bucky, Thor, and Falsy. They’re a young team. But God, he _feels_ it.

“Okay rooks, let’s see this through at least to the second round,” Jim booms.

Steve’s head whips from where he was resting his eyes for a second, toward the floor.

Steve points to Jim, and he doesn’t know where the confidence is coming from but with surety he says: “Forget the second round; at the end of this, you’ll be lifting the cup, Morita.”

Thor roars in affirmation, and everyone else follows. Moments later, Nat leans toward him. “I like this side of you.”

It’s the image of the cup that Steve plays with in his head, and judging from the way his team strikes, that’s what they’re thinking of too.

They win 3-2, and it’s a good start.

In the locker room, grins seem infectious. Pietro is beaming like it’s the birth of his first child, and, in some ways, Steve supposes this is similar. The rookie scored the first playoff goal of the series and of his career just a minute into the first period. Thor’s loud voice is booming and promising Norwegian mead at the end of the series and Steve has to shake his head about how they’re all maybe getting ahead of themselves. But he knows he added fuel to the fire, and anyway, Nat is smiling, Sam is joking with everybody around him, and even Bucky’s eyes are shining. They have two days between now and the next game to think about their sloppy second period. Steve knows they’re amongst the strongest offensive teams in the league, but lapses in defense and failure in the backcheck have been a problem all season and that was clear on display tonight, when both Summers brothers scored within five minutes of each other in the second period. Between Steve’s tap-in at the beginning of the third, and Nat’s goal at the tail end of the period they took the first game, but Steve needs to make sure the team doesn’t get too complacent in the future.    

“They say the first series is the best,” Pietro says after, cheeks red and high on the win. Half this team hasn’t made it to a second series, but no one asks Pietro who “they” are. They know it’s not the words of Erik Lensherr.

“We’ll see what they say when we’re in the second” Bucky winks.

***

“One and done!” Pietro exclaims, standing in the middle of the locker room with his helmet in his hands and his pale face flush.

Steve is pulling off his pads and bites back a smile. The locker room isn’t half as quiet as it was before the start of the game, and now that they’re firmly in the second round – the first team to make it, even – they’re all feeling good. It’s been years since they’ve felt on such solid ground in the post-season. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Oh ho, that’s rich,” Sam interjects. “Coming from Captain ‘Forget This, Let’s Get the Cup?’”

The team hollers until Tony raises his right hand. “Can we take a moment to appreciate the unsung hero? Bruce Banner, you beautiful motherfucker.” Tony takes Bruce’s cheeks between his hands and bends forward toward the sitting goalie to kiss the top of his head.

“Banner! Banner! Banner!”

“Shit, this feels better than I remember,” Bucky says, when he and Steve are on their way out of the arena. Steve knows what he’s referring to. Bucky has had several postseasons and one Cup win with the Boston Bruins. Steve feels proud in ways he can’t totally define.

“You’re with a different group, it’s not the same.”

“You were a fucking star, you know that?”

Steve wants to shove Bucky against a wall and kiss him stupid. He seems to oscillate between crushing insecurity and over-brimming confidence, and Steve will be fucked if Bucky can’t see how vital he’s become to the team. “You were just as good as I am, Buck.”

“I know that,” Bucky turns to him. “Do you realize what you do? You’re a fucking leader, Steve. Every game you had a hand in us winning – your goal and assist in the first, your goal and assist in the third, another assist tonight. Take that in.”

They get outside and Steve breathes in the warming air. “I didn’t get any points in the second game,” he jokes self-deprecatingly. It’s not saying much – points were scarce since they won by a 1-0 margin that game.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I have never seen a man backcheck like you did that night.”

No one speaks for awhile, and together they walk in the direction of the hotel, hats drawn over their eyes despite the clear spring night.

“It feels good,” Steve says, finally.  

_***_

 

> _LEAFS SWEEP THE PHILADELPHIA FLYERS WITH GAME 4 WIN_
> 
> April 18th, 2018.
> 
> **TORONTO** \-- Bucky Barnes scored for the Leafs, who will play the New York Rangers or Pittsburgh Penguins in the Eastern Conference Second Round.
> 
> "We couldn’t be happier," Leafs coach Nick Fury said. "It's two good teams, and I guess basically we got a little bit more puck luck than they did. We cashed in at the right times."
> 
> Henry McCoy made 20 saves for the Flyers, who are 0-5 at home and 1-8 in their past two playoff appearances since winning the Stanley Cup in 2014.
> 
> All four games in the series were decided by one goal.
> 
> "That's what the playoffs are all about," said Flyers center Scott Summers, who was denied a chance at equalizing when Banner robbed him with a glove save at 7:15 of the third period. "They are after all one of the highest scoring teams in the League, and they mustered up, what was it, eight goals all series?
> 
> "It's not like we were blown out of the water. [McCoy] gave us a chance every night back there, it’s not like they deserved to win more."
> 
> Barton scored at 4:04 in the second period on a one-timer from the right circle. An unsung hero for the Maple Leafs, it was only his third NHL playoff goal for the team, after their early exit the season prior.
> 
> Captain Steve Rogers and Tony Stark had the assists, but it was Thor Odinson's pass that started the sequence and allowed the Maple Leafs to cleanly and quickly exit their own zone for a 3-on-2 rush.
> 
> Rogers has three assists and two goals during a four-game point streak.
> 
> The Flyers controlled the start of the game, outshooting the Leafs 8-1 in the opening 10:30. But Toronto was able to withstand the early charge, thanks to some description-defying saves by Banner and several blocked shots. Rogers called the goalie the MVP of the series, but Banner had something different to say.
> 
> “One man doesn’t win a series,” said Banner, who had a 0.65 goals-against average and .977 save percentage in the series. “We roll four lines, put out six D that work their asses off… everyone contributes, it’s a team game.”

***

They fly home and spend the next few days resting, mostly. Bucky hasn’t left Steve’s apartment, and Nat jokes if he remembers where his own is. But it’s easy that way. It feels natural to stay close, and the spare room has pretty much become his these past few months, anyway. He’s the only one using it. At night, they watch TSN on Steve’s couch, sometimes joined by Nat and Sam. Every night until the end of the first series across the league, they eat their dinners as they follow the progress of the other teams in their conference, and the western conference as well. It doesn’t hurt to know the competition even when they haven’t made it far enough to call it that.

When they learn the Hurricanes were knocked out by the Bruins, Steve picks up his phone to send a consolatory text to Peter Parker; they’d met earlier in the season briefly, but Steve can’t help but like the kid – smaller and scrawnier than the average hockey player, but talented as he is. Bucky’s phone is vibrating so hard it’s about to fall off the end table.

“Buck, control this thing,” Steve passes the iphone to his linemate.

“We’re playing New York,” Bucky says, snorting at his screen, turning it toward Steve so Steve can see its contents.

It’s not a bracket like Steve expected. It’s texts and they’re all variations of

_NYR!!!!_

_BUCKKYYYYYYYY_

_BUCKYYYYY BBBB_

_YOU’RE COMING HOME._

Steve’s torn. “The Rangers, huh?”

Bucky just shrugs. “We can take them.”

Boston and Pittsburgh make it through as well, which isn’t surprising. Pittsburgh and Washington had the toughest draw, but the Penguins clinched the deal in game six just two days ago. Steve has faith they’ll make it through the next round, but he doesn’t envy having to play either one of them. The Pens having had their hottest regular season in the last few years, and Boston being the most physical team in the league, having knocked the Leafs out in a rather memorable seven games that still replays in Steve’s nightmares.

But in many ways playing the Rangers represents a milestone in Steve’s career. This is the same team that saw Xavier lead his team to victory three times, and Lensherr take the reins for a memorable fourth. Steve watched that team with his eyes glued to the television, too poor to go to games, but steadfast in his devotion. As a kid, playing for the Rangers was his dream, and now, at nearly twenty-six years old, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere other than where he is now.

“Keep that fire.” Steve says. Then, shaking his head, “So, I take it your family will be in the stands.”

“Becca will be there for sure, and mom and dad will want to come as well. I should let Maria know soon, I guess.”

Bucky doesn’t ask after Steve’s family; he knows Steve’s only living family is here on this team, anyway. But Bucky is close with his, Steve knows from the fond smile that changes his face every time his little sister texts. She’s in her last year of an undergraduate degree at NYU. Steve can’t remember if she’s studying history or literature, but he knows she’s a liberal arts student, with long brown hair, and a loud, cheery voice that carries when Bucky picks up the phone. 

 

MAY

* * *

 

They play the first two games at home, and it’s not like the first series at all. For one, they lose 4-2 when they get blindsided by two quick-fire Rangers goals in the third period. They’re not good goals, either, he thinks bitterly. One was a tap-in, and the second a breakaway from a defensive error. It’s easy to tell the team is still shook from the way they scrape by on a 3-2 overtime win in the second game. Down two goals to the Rangers, Steve scores their first in the second, assisted on a hell of an effort by Tony. All that’s left is a tap-in, and he gets the job done. Two more goals trail after it. Bucky scores on the power play, but it's Falsy who rewards the fourth line’s tough work with the game-winner. 

By the time they board the plane to New York City, they’ve managed to shake the vestiges of their nerves and they’re building back to the tempo of the first series. It’s a short flight from Toronto to New York, but it’s the early evening, and Steve hopes to doze a bit in the plush seat of the plane. The traffic on the way to the airport made him drowsy and the brief period of waiting didn’t help.

It proves harder than expected; Thor’s voice booms from several rows back, and Bucky is buzzing beside him. Ecstatic to see his sister, no doubt.

Tony’s started singing Frank Sinatra’s _New York, New York_. It becomes quickly clear no measure of sleep is in the cards for Steve, at least not for the next few hours. 

Steve turns his attention to Bucky. He stares at him for longer than he’d ever admit. Bucky’s got earbuds in and he’s listening to something low enough that no sound carries. He’s holding a book in right hand, far enough that Steve can’t read the title, but can tell the spine is red. He hasn’t cracked it open once, not in the airport or on the plane. He’d given Bucky the window seat because he could tell he wanted it. They’re both Brooklyn boys, but in a way, Steve attaches that only to his boyhood. He’s spent the entirety of his adult life to date in Toronto, and he thinks he’ll stay there for the foreseeable future. But Bucky and Brooklyn are still irrevocably interwined; it’s easy to hear in the lilt of his voice, his family ties, and the way he still speaks of the pizza like it’s better than Steve remembers it. He’d heard Bucky talking to Sam months ago about their offseasons. As one of his closest friends, Steve knows that Sam spends the summer in DC, not where he’s from, but where he went to college. His girlfriend’s family is from right outside DC, and Sam has a few friends who still live there – quite a few work in journalism, and one, Sam had told him, works in the White House. Steve’s face soured at the reminder of the current administration, and Sam laughed instantly, nodding in assent. Bucky, though, has a flat in Brooklyn that he pays rent on even during the year. He doesn’t lease it out. They’re hockey players – particularly good ones – and they can afford it, so why not? It’s his space, Bucky said, and he can’t bear to think of it as someone else’s. Steve has seen Bucky’s apartment at home in Toronto and it’s deeply impersonal, almost barren. He thinks that, maybe, that’s why they spend so much time at his.

“Are you going to see Becca before the game at some point?” Steve asks.

“Tonight, actually,” Bucky pops an earbud out of the ear closest to Steve, smiling and stilling his left leg. Steve’s glad for it; the constant movement was making _him_ nervous, and he was dangerously close to putting a palm on Bucky’s thigh just to get him to stay still.

No one is going out tonight. It’s the playoffs, for christ’s sakes. Bucky must be able to tell Steve’s eye is about to twitch, because his whole face seems tinged with mirth as he says “Don’t worry, Stevie, no drinking or anything like that. She says to bring you, by the way.”

“Let’s see how I feel when we get there.”

They settle into the hotel around a quarter after 8pm, and Bucky is meticulously taking things out of his suitcase and putting them where they’d belong if this were his place. It makes _Steve_ of all people feel messy, but he’d asked about it once and Bucky just told him it was force of habit. By the time Bucky is shedding the sweats he flew in for a pair of dark wash jeans, Steve is wide awake.

“I think I’ll take your sister up on her offer.”

Bucky smiles almost deviously, and beckons to Steve to hurry up.

When they get to the lobby, there’s a young woman staring at pamphlets, but Steve knows its Becca from the way Bucky’s pace quickens to get to her, and the shine of her hair, the same shade as her brother’s. Becca turns when they’re only a few steps away, and instantly her face breaks out in a smile. Steve’s first thought is that they don’t share the same eyes, hers an almond colour and Bucky’s a deep blue that Steve sees in his head every time he closes his own eyes. She lifts her arms, and in an instant the siblings have thrown themselves into a tight hug, like it’s been months since they last saw each other. And, come to think of it, it has.

“I missed you!”

“I missed you more.”

They disengage, and take a step back, each sizing the other up as if there’s some way of telling everything is okay from a purely physical standpoint.

“Sorry, Steve.” Bucky says it sheepishly, but Steve’s neither embarrassed nor uncomfortable in their emotional display in the foyer of the hotel. “But this is the sister that doesn’t stop texting me.”

He grins, and Rebecca can’t fight her own smile.

“The one and only, he means to say. Becca Barnes. Pleasure to meet you, Captain America.” She leans forward to shake his hand, and only now Steve realizes that maybe he should have left the two siblings to catch up alone. “Thank you for your service,” she winks.

Steve tries to mentally will his face not to betray a blush. “Just Steve is good.”

“Well, Just Steve, I’ve heard _so_ much about you. Now, is it you who lives in my brother’s flat, or is it the other way around.”

She smiles wickedly at Bucky’s pained expression, and Steve can’t help but smirk.

“It’s the other way around, and he doesn’t have the decency to pay rent, either.”

“We always did joke that he was raised by wolves, but we never figured out how that could be true – mom was raised in Brooklyn, and Dad’s an Irish catholic. Anyway, are we off or what, boys?”

“Where are we going, exactly?”

“Nowhere you or our dieticians will approve,” Bucky smirks now, and despite the fact the Barnes siblings have two very different smiles, this expression is the same.

“Oh hush, Bucky. We’re going for ice cream, Steve.”

She clings to her brother’s arm, and outside the hotel doors and into the cool spring air, they step into the night. It doesn’t feel like home.

They clinch two solid wins in New York and then they’re back to Toronto. And it’s different this time, Sam’s been swearing up and down it is. And it is, because they’re 3-1 in the series. The Leafs are back on the lips of every pundit’s and sports fan’s lips as potential contenders for this season’s Stanley Cup Final, and Steve knows in his bones that they are. His blood sings with its every thought and mention, but he’s trying not to get ahead of himself and he can tell by the look in Nat’s eyes and the clench of Tony’s fist that they can feel it, too.

They’ll have to get through the Eastern Conference Final to get to the Stanley Cup, of course, and they’re a game away from that. So right now, tonight’s game is the only game that matters, and what matters is that they need a win.

***

It’s funny, Steve thinks, because it’s not even the Stanley Cup finals, but he feels like the last few years have been leading up to this series, starting here, at the TD Gardens.

Which is why it’s anticlimactic when they lose. Except anticlimactic isn’t the word – infuriating, nearly fucking _crushing_ , because they don’t just lose, they get shutout in Boston. In fact, they get positively _smoked_ in the first game – a whopping 4-0 that sees Bruce get pulled in the second period when he concedes three goals within six minutes and it's shit, it feels like shit, and no one in the fucking locker room is more pissed off about it than Bucky Barnes.

Steve gives a lecture that tries not to be too pointed, but it’s harsh, it’s angry, it’s maybe not exactly what he wants to say. But the Leafs haven’t been this far in years, and the last thing Steve wants to even cross his mind is that making it this far was a fluke. Which is why when he realizes that he can’t be any worse than his team is going to be on themselves, he reminds them that they lost the first game against New York, too.

They lose the second game too, this time by one goal, and Steve thinks it’ll be different when they get back to Toronto, like it was different in the fifth game against the Rangers, but it’s not. It’s another shutout and the locker room before the fourth game in the series is tense.

The tight pull of Bucky’s mouth before the game is what Steve thinks about. The stakes were high against the Rangers, but just as progress goes, the stakes have _now_ never been higher.

“Boston will come at us hard.” Steve starts. He clears his throat and speaks a bit louder, even though the locker room was nearly dead silent to begin with. “They’ll play rough, and dirty, and make no mistake, it will feel like the longest fucking game of your life. It’s in or out for us; life or death, in a way. That’s pressure, but it is what it is. They’re a team like any other, and we’ve beat them before. It’s as much exploiting their weaknesses as it is playing to our strengths. They’re fast, but we’re faster. We killed it this season, but this season doesn’t have to be over tonight. We’ve lost to Boston before, but I’m not ready to do it again.”

And though this series has been far from his best, it’s always Tony Stark who rallies – the heart of the team; the emotional backbone.

“O Captain, my captain!” there’s a chorus of that before the team ties up the last of their laces, but beneath it, Steve realizes Bucky’s quiet, standing with his skates on and front facing the wall, phone in hand.

Steve knows Bucky’s been carrying the weight of this series more acutely than anyone. His former team has been particularly hard on him, tactically and physically. He knows it shows, and he knows that’s the media focus of the series. He’s more hot-tempered lately, more like Steve, and his anger is getting the best of him in a way it usually doesn’t. Steve comes up behind him, and rests both hands on in his shoulders, moving them in the imitation of a massage that Bucky can’t feel beneath his shoulder pads. But he’ll feel the pressure, the muted weight of them. Steve leans forward. “This isn’t you. Score tonight, Buck. Prove them wrong. You know you can.”

It’s clear Bucky takes Steve’s words to heart, and maybe that was the confidence he needed, because he has his best-game of the post season so far, with a goal, two assists, and solid work on the penalty kill.

“If we get through this series, Buck, I’m gonna wingman you so hard,” Gabe says with a wink as they exit the locker room.

Bucky shakes his head, but laughs nonetheless. “I don’t need your help.”

“Please, Bucky, I’m starting to think you’ve had a dry spell as long as Steve’s,” Nat drawls from beside him, and Steve relaxes at the familiarity of their banter. They won 4-1, and they survive the night knowing every game that follows has the same knockout stakes.

Everything’s changed in the series, but away from the ice everything stays the same.

Bucky follows Steve home, and when they get in, Steve throws his bag behind the door and locks it.

“I need a shower, and I need my bed,” Bucky says, already walking in the direction of the guest bathroom.

Steve doesn’t comment on how the guest bedroom isn’t his. He doesn’t even think about Bucky under the spray of that shower, even though that’s been the predominant focus of his dreams for months now. Steve’s tired straight down to his bones and he can barely muster up the energy to say more than good night.

He walks into his own bedroom, closes the door, and instantly strips completely, swapping his briefs for fresh boxers, and mindlessly making his way into his bed, where he pulls the covers up to his arm pits. He takes more than a few moments to lie there and take inventory of his body. Steve’s never made it this far into the playoffs, but he’s seen online the injury reports that read like post-mortems of other teams' Playoff campaigns. He’s sore, he’s tired, but right now all he can account for harm is a bruise on his side from where Becker checked him into the boards. It’s tender, but it’s not blooming black and that’s how Steve knows it’s not a problem.

Steve doesn’t know how long he spends there in the dark – tired, but wired, too. His brain runs over replays and what he’s noticed about Boston, like how they’re defensively solid but liable to get caught out of position on a counter attack. Susceptible to shorthanded goals, Steve thinks, and makes a mental note to bring it up to Fury and the penalty kill to see if it’s something they can possibly exploit in game 5.

He doesn’t realize his door opening because there’s no sound, and no light on in the hall, but after only five months, he’d recognize the voice of Bucky Barnes anywhere.

“You asleep, Stevie?”

“No, come in.”

Instead of sitting perched at the side, reminiscent of their conversation months ago, Bucky moves toward the bed and Steve shuffles to the opposite side, giving him room to climb atop the bed and rest upon the covers. Steve’s on his side, elbow propping his head up and turned to face him.

“Thank you.”

“You have nothing to thank me for. The team couldn’t have done it without you tonight.”

“Earlier, before the game, in the locker room.”

Steve wants to laugh, but he can’t even muster the energy for a chuckle. “You can’t thank me for doing my job, Buck.”

“I was so in my head about the series, you know? It’s Boston, and I was there for six years, and they weren’t all bad, but fuck, Steve.”

“There were times in Boston, days, months, _spells_ , I don’t know they seemed to last years – where I’d think to myself: is it worth it? And sometimes I didn’t know what I was talking about. Hockey? Life? The games before tonight, I remembered that, and I let it get the better of me, and it won’t be like that tomorrow.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t.

“Sleep here tonight, Buck.”

Bucky swallows and nods silently.

Bucky’s not meeting his eyes, but Steve would die for the look on his face right now, to keep him from ever looking like that again.

***

When Steve thought what he thought last night, it wasn’t what he hoped he’d have to act on.

But Bucky hits the ground _hard_.

Boston’s playing a brutal game, more aggressive than they’d been in the past four, and there have been penalty minutes incurred on both sides. They’ve been in the Leafs’ zone for what feels like half the period, but Sam gets the puck and races on a counter toward the Boston goal with Tony in tow. The hit from Rumlow comes unexpected, several meters from the action and nowhere near the puck. It’s dirty _at best_. Unquestionably illegal, and Bucky hits the ice and falls on his left side. In the distance, Sam shoots, it misses, and the referee is skating back toward Bucky and Brock Rumlow standing over him.

Steve stills as Rumlow opens his mouth.

“Come on, Barnes, get the fuck up, you little sissy. You’ve always been a primadonna bitch, get up.”

Steve skates lightly to Bucky’s side, in front of Rumlow, just as the ref is approaching. “Buck, you okay? How’s the arm? Rumlow, get the fuck outta here.”

Before Bucky can open his mouth to answer, Rumlow gives a dark laugh. “You fight all his battles for him, Rogers? Does he suck your dick too with those pretty lips? We heard all about that, you know.”

“Rumlow. Leave.”

Naturally, he doesn’t. Boston’s C moves right up into Steve’s face and shoves him.

“You just going to let the little faggot call the shots then? Milk a fucking dive? Must be some ass.”

Steve sees red; doesn’t think before he throws down the gloves, and suddenly Rumlow’s moving back a bit, smirking, and shedding his own. Steve wants to bloody that mouth.

It’s Steve’s first career fight – hell, his first fight on ice, ever. There’s no dance, no feign, and he doesn’t know who moves first – Rumlow, he thinks -  but they may as well have been in the ring he trained at the few years he spent in college. He hears the whistle blow, but there’s no one coming between them and they’re grappling, struggling to throw punches at the others’ helmet. A well placed hit from Rumlow ricochets off Steve’s helmet, reverberates in his ear, and Steve comes back twice as hard, gripping the black of the Boston jersey in one hand and repeatedly aiming a right jab to side of Rumlow’s face. Rumlow’s helmet’s off first, and fuck, Steve’s never been an advocate of fighting but he’s not stopping until it’s over. In his periphery, he can see the black and white stripes a safe distance to moderate the fight, and then it’s one punch, two, three straight to that right cheekbone and Rumlow stumbles and falls.

Steve doesn’t move. Stands there breathing heavy as he’s given his five for fighting and a ten-minute misconduct. He looks down at his hand to see the top of his knuckles painted red. KO.

***

Despite everything that happened, or maybe in spite of it, Steve’s more nervous about the post-game presser and he was about the fight. Before it, the Leafs were already up 2-1 on goals scored by Nat and Bucky, and though he didn’t come back to the ice until the third period, the team fucking rallied with two goals coming from their third line and one scored by Steve himself on the power play. Thor saves what should have been a momentum-builder for the Bruins if not for his goal-line clearance, and though the Bruins score a consolation goal in the third period, the buzzer forty seconds later tells the arena it’s the end.

But under the bright lights and before the gulf of reporters, Steve feels like he’s sweating through his fresh suit.

It’s three questions before someone brings up the fight.

The woman who speaks is wearing bright red lipstick and for a moment, it’s all Steve’s tired eyes can see. “Captain Rogers, that was some fight. Do you think it changed the trajectory of the game?”

Steve nods. “I don’t know if it did. We were already up at that point, but I do think that the team responded to that leadership. I don’t endorse fighting, but sometimes it seems unavoidable, and the rest of the game we played like we had to continue that fight.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but he gives a smile he hopes conveys his fatigue. “Or at least that’s what I saw during my ten-minute misconduct.

 “You don’t think it was pretty risky throwing down the gloves with a tenuous one-goal lead?” A male voice interjects.

“Like I said, it’s my first career fight, and I’m not much of a fighter, but as I think we all know, tensions run high on the ice, and Boston is a physical team. It felt right at the time, but hopefully this is the last we see from me.”

“So you risked your team’s livelihood for a chance to prove yourself?” _This man is a sports journalist_ , Steve thinks, furious.

But did he? He supposes he might have risked his team’s chances. But it was instinctive, completely without intent. Does that make it worse? He saw Bucky hit the ice, he heard Brock Rumlow run his mouth, and all Steve could think of was the weary tone Bucky used with him, months earlier. _Things kind of fell apart after_ _that_. _Is it worth it?_ Just another fuck-up, just another ten years of being so goddamn alone.

“Look,” Steve pauses and strokes the beard he’s still not used to. It’s filled in nicely though. “We won the game on skill and momentum. A fight can light a spark, but I won’t pretend this was deliberate. I’ll defend my teammate whenever he – or she – deserves it. But let’s stop pretending the mic didn’t pick up what Rumlow said. We know he got the game misconduct, we know he was fined and given a two-game suspension. That’s off the ice; on the ice, he had it coming.”

Nick is saying something beside him to the reporters. He moves his own microphone closer to him.

“To make that clear,” he cuts off his coach. “this is not some ‘social justice’ cause or crusade. This is a statement, and if I have to stand alone on that, I will. The kind of language he used, the shit he said – that’s not appropriate, it’s not allowed, and it’s sure as hell not to be punctuated with illegal hits and continued verbal abuse. Sure, we’ll go home, we’ll read the speculation on the veracity of comments, but that’s not the point. What people do on their own time isn’t subject to scrutiny or cruelty on the ice. We as players and an organization can’t say we stand for equality and sportsmanship if we let these toxic attitudes persist. Today the NHL showed they don’t stand for it, and I’m sure it’s clear that neither my team nor I do. Returning to the fight with Rumlow, now, normally, I’m sure players say no hard feelings, but I think we know I’d be lying if I used it here.”

The room is flooded by journalists trying to talk over each other. Fury ends the presser, and that’s that then.

***

When Steve gets home, Bucky is already there, leaning against the wall parallel to the door. Steve wonders how long he’s been there, waiting. Had he watched Steve run his mouth post-game to the reporters? Probably not, he looks like he’s been here for a while. The man in question runs a hand down his face.  
  
“He was right, you know? You sacrificed the series. For what? You’ve known me for four fucking months.”  
  
“I’ve known you longer than that.”  
  
“Steve.” Bucky starts slowly, like he’s speaking to a child, “Steve, we played together when we were kids. That didn’t talk for years. That doesn’t count.”  
  
Steve shrugs.  
  
“Well, are you fucking stupid?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Are you retarded?”  
  
“Don’t use that word,” Steve says automatically.

Bucky stops for a second. “You’re right, I’m sorry. But what the hell, Steve?”

“Are you mad?”

“No. Yes. I’m mad I couldn’t get up faster; I was genuinely worried. I’m mad it wasn’t me to throw the punch, I don’t know if I could have. But I’m not mad at you. But what you did tonight on the ice was insane.”

“I was defending you.”

Steve knows it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave his lips.

“You were defending me?” Bucky’s voice rises so fast it nearly cracks. “Oh, that’s great Steve, thanks, but nothing to defend since you already fucking know he’s right. So tell me, why’d you get so riled up?” Steve’s already been in one fight tonight, he doesn’t want another. Bucky moves closer to Steve until he’s nearly crowding him, and the tilt of his lips is cruel. “Fuck once, is that what you want? You want me to be your bitch? Or were you just so disgusted, because I really feel like I get mixed messages from you.”

“Bucky,” Steve says brokenly, “you’re the one who kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.” His tone is accusing and the air feels charged, but his voice has calmed. “Y’know, it looks good on you, Captain.” Bucky brushes his fingers over the bruise Rumlow left on Steve’s cheekbone and his heart surges. Bucky moves forward, and the seconds before his mouth finds Bucky’s are all wasted time.

It happens too fast. They should probably talk about it, but Steve gets the feeling that they both think they’ve said all there is to say, so they’re kissing like the teenagers they haven’t been for years, but then Bucky’s back ends up against the wall, and Steve’s hands trying to grab a hold of everything. Steve pulls his lips off Bucky’s, only for a moment, only to catch his breath, and there’s a trail of saliva that holds them together. It's gross, but Bucky licks his lips, licks it away, and Steve’s dick twitches.  
  
“Is it too cliché to say I’ve never done this before?” Steve means it to sound factual and nonchalant, but there it is, near-silent and raspy like he’s been running a marathon.

Bucky moves his mouth southwest of Steve’s lips, kisses at Steve’s throat where his beard stops, and tells him that he’s okay with that before nipping at the point where Steve’s jawline meets his ear. It’s just Bucky, and Steve is still so damn turned on. Maybe it’s because it’s just Bucky. He doesn’t know.

They’re kissing again and Steve is moving his hands up Bucky’s threadbare t-shirt, long fingers tracing up his abs, his nipples, Bucky lurches and the shirt is coming off over his head. Steve’s shirt joins it on the floor shortly after that.

“Are you gonna take me to bed, Stevie, or are we just gonna mack in your hall.”

“I don’t know, Buck, I kind of like where I have you right now.”

Bucky flips their positions, Steve’s senses relishing in the thud of his own back hitting the wall, watching as his linemate gets on his knees with his shirt off and fly down. He pulls down Steve’s black slacks and boxer briefs in one-go, pulls on Steve’s cock and says _Yes, Captain_ , before taking the tip into his mouth.

When Steve comes to the next morning, he’s curled against Bucky’s back. It’s warm and the blankets barely cover the lower halves they're splayed over, but Steve burrows closer anyway.

“Steve,” Bucky grumbles. “We good?”

“Yeah, Buck.” Steve rights himself and puts some distance between his erection and Bucky’s ass. “We’re good.”

Bucky blindly moves a hand to Steve’s hip, pushing him closer. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I do,” Steve says, realizing that he _does_ mean it and that fuck it, there’s no sense in depriving either of them.

He takes his arm from where it’s curled over Bucky’s chest to push him flat on his back. Moving his legs to sit astride Bucky he says “I really, really do.”

They lose their morning to kisses and the slick slide of bodies.

***

When Steve finally checks his phone hours later, he has texts from teammates and some of his friends throughout the league, all variations of words conveying admiration. Steve doesn’t think he deserves praise for being a decent person, but he reads them all anyway.

His favourite comes from Peter Parker, a kid Steve has _barely_ spoken to save the time he excitedly asked Steve for his number, and the few texts they’ve sent between - but, if he guesses right, they’ll be playing alongside each other on the Olympic team roster next year. His text is six lines long, starting with YESSS STEVE ROGERS, and ending with a heartfelt message on how he is such a good role model, and there is absolutely no one better to represent their shared country, or such an important cause as this one.

He pauses on his text thread with Pietro, containing two texts sent hours apart. The first says, simply, _thank u_ , and in isolation, it makes very little sense considering the number of women Steve has seen him leave with. The second says _my father, too_ , and when Steve feels a knot form in his throat. He thinks of Charles Xavier hitting the ice, and then he remembers an epigraph to a book he never actually read, just picked up once under a _Great Canadian Novels_ display at a bookstore when he first wandered the streets of Toronto.

_I will let my hair grow long for your sake, I will wander through the wilderness in the skin of a lion_

He’s deep in thought when Bucky’s hand lands on his shoulder. From behind the couch, he brings his face close that their beards nearly touch and that’s what breaks him out of his reverie. Steve quickly exits out of his text conversation with Pietro, keeping the secret just that.

“What’s up?”

 “It’s kind of nice to have everyone on your side,” Steve says without looking up.

“You’re _Captain America_. Everyone’s always on your side, Steve.” Bucky lifts his hands and comes around to lie on the sofa, perching his legs over Steve’s.

“You were amazing, you know?” He says softly.

Steve snorts. It’s been a day and he’s already annoyed with the attention.

“No, hear me out. I saw the press conference just now, and I get it, you hate the focus on something you think is _basic human decency_. But it’s not because people fucking suck. So, I’ll drop it after I tell you this – if I’d had someone like you to look up to while I was growing up… that would’ve changed everything.”

There’s a horrible moment where Steve has to swallow to make sure he doesn’t do something stupid, like tear up.

“Thanks, Buck.”

Bucky pats Steve’s thigh. “Just wanted you to know. So, what do we think Rumlow’s suspension changes?”

Steve inhales before he responds.

It almost feels like he doesn’t exhale until four nights later in game seven, when he scores the overtime goal that sends the Leafs to the Stanley Cup Final for the first time since 1967.

 

 

JUNE

* * *

Its pressure like Steve’s never felt before; his body is sore from the strenuous schedule and the feeling that he’s carrying an entire city’s hopes on his shoulders. When he closes his eyes, he tastes silver on his tongue. His beard makes him hot even in the places that have air conditioning, and every time he goes to scratch it, he remembers the imminent first game of the Stanley Cup Final series against the LA Kings.

The Kings have been playing well all season. In fact, the Kings have been playing well for the last few seasons, and knowing they lost in seven games at the Stanley Cup Final last year conveys to Steve that they’ll be out for blood. Steve reassures himself that they got through Boston, and while playing the Kings won’t be child’s play, their style of play is certainly more suited to face each other. It's their hell of an efficient power play that the Leafs have to watch out for.

Turns out, Steve couldn’t write a better first start to the series. They obliterate the first game 4-0, and Bucky scores another goal three seconds before a flurry of hats hit the ice and the final buzzer sounds.

They ride up to Steve’s apartment in silence, partially because Steve doesn’t trust himself to talk and partially because they’re still a little in awe of having just won the first game of the final series, the Stanley Cup inching just that bit closer.

Steve reaches for his keys as Bucky comes up behind him, brushing his longer-than-usual hair, and sucking a kiss to the base of the back of his neck. Steve fights the urge to melt backward into Bucky’s arms, but when he gets the door open, they walk in, they shut it, and then Bucky’s on him, almost an exact reversal of the first time they did this. From the way Bucky smirks when he detaches their lips, Steve knows they’re making it to the bedroom this time.

Bucky’s teeth pull on Steve’s lower lip.

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Fuck, Buck, we shouldn’t yet,” Steve groans, thinking of Game 2, and this, he thinks, might be the hardest thing he’s ever had to say.

“We have a day in between. Fuck. Me.”

Steve has never been so hard in his life, and when he looks into Bucky’s eyes, he sees those pupils dilated. Each of his kisses are bruising, and _fuck_ , but Steve wants it. He backs them into the master bedroom, pushes his lover on the bed, and climbs atop his lap. Bucky gives him a dirty smirk and flashes him a condom and some lube.

He swears and moves up to kiss Bucky again. It scares Steve to think of how he wants this more than almost anything, not just the physical aspect – Steve wants so wholly and completely, with the same tenacity he applies to most things in his life. They haven’t gone this far yet, but God, Steve’s wanted this since he replaced the ambiguous figure in his dreams with Bucky’s now-familiar body. He’s intent on not fucking it up, but God, all they’ve done is trade a few handjobs and the one unreciprocated blowjob Bucky gave on that first night. Steve’s thoughts leave him when Bucky sucks a love bite into his chest, and Steve just knows he’s going to be littered with the marks of what they do in the dark for days to come.

He pulls Bucky to sit up so he can tug the shirt free from his pants, and then it’s coming off and Bucky’s moving to divest Steve of his own shirt. Steve feels Bucky’s blunt nails trail across his back and suppresses a shiver. He’s so fucking hard, and all they’ve done is talk dirty and rut on top of the sheets.

“Come on, Stevie, don’t keep me waiting.”

He lifts himself to take off his own pants and then, stark naked, reaches between their bodies to unbutton Bucky’s denims. He discards Bucky’s boxers and his dick bobs toward his stomach. Steve looks down, clenches the lube and condom packets in his left hand, absent-mindedly. When he realizes, he opens the lube and coats two fingers. But his eyes rest on that hard, leaking cock and he’s never given a blowjob, but fuck, he thinks he might want to.

As if he can read his thoughts, Bucky smooths a hand over Steve’s hair and responds.  

“Hey, hey you don’t have to.”

Steve nods, but his subsequent actions belay the response.

Steve moves accordingly, and steadying Bucky’s hips with one hand, he licks a stripe on the underside of his dick. Steve licks again, getting used to the taste, and it’s so, so different from going down on a girl. He tongues at the head before moving it deeper into his mouth, running his tongue along the weight of it. Steve can barely hear anything but the deafening sound of his own heartbeat, but when he casts his eyes toward Bucky, he has an arm thrown over his eyes and is making sweet, keening sounds into the empty room.

Steve hums, tries to pick up a rhythm, and moves a finger between Bucky’s parted legs and behind his balls.

Bucky doesn’t tense, but he grabs gently at Steve’s hair.

“You’re going to be the fucking death of me.”

Steve takes that as some sort of affirmation and pushes the first finger in slowly. He moves it experimentally, and Bucky gives a light moan. “Another.”

Steve lifts his mouth from Bucky’s cock and replaces it with his hand. He knows it’s not enough, but he wants to feel Bucky finally come when he’s inside of him. Steve adds a second finger, burying it to the third knuckle before sliding them in and out, scissoring them, using it to stretch Bucky out. He lets a third finger catch on the rim before making room for that too, until Bucky’s a mess beneath him. He pulls them out and slides the condom over his dick.

“Come on, come on. Steve. Fuck.” He’s never liked the sound of his name so much, not even loud in the pre-game announcements before the packed Air Canada Centre.

 “Yeah?” Steve leans in to ask, breathing almost into Bucky’s mouth. The room is stifling hot with the combined heat of their sweat and bodies. Steve doesn’t know where the confidence is coming from. “I want to see you take it.”

“Yes. Yes.” Bucky gasps, and Steve pushes in, and the heat is like nothing else. Steve can’t stop the groan falling from his lips. _Fuck_. They both need the second to adjust before he moves.

Bucky’s gorgeous like this - Steve thinks as he sits back and pulls Bucky’s body toward his lap, his hips piston in and out. He’s wrecked in a way he hasn’t seen, with his eyes glossy and mouth falling open on the noises he makes, and Steve wants this all the damn time. He gets a hand on Bucky’s cock and moves it in time with his thrusts. Bucky rolls his hips, moans particularly loudly, and Steve could _die_ here.

***

The Leafs are up 3-1, and on the night they win the third game, they have a late dinner.

The group comprises of him, Nat, Sam, Clint, Thor, and Tony. The original six, if you were. Pietro went for tapas with his twin sister, and Bucky’s family is in town, having sat in the box cheering as their son assisted Nat’s goal in the second period. They talk about the game, what worked and what didn’t, and how they anticipate the Kings will respond. They let in a shorthanded goal tonight and Steve sees that as a personal failure that he doesn’t want to repeat.

He gets up to go to the washroom and doesn’t realize he left his phone on the table until he comes back to their table, Nat passing it over with an indecipherable look on her face.

“Your phone’s been blowing up. I beat Tony to grabbing it when he made a move.”

 “Hey,” Tony chimes, “In case whoever texts you gets bored of talking to a 90-something year old man, I’m right here.”

He pockets the phone and says his thanks. Natasha gives a barely perceptible nod in return.

Whereas it’s been Bucky following him home for the better part of the season, Nat walks him to his condo, and then up the elevator to the door. As much as he desperately loves his best friend, Steve wishes she wouldn’t – he’s dead tired and desperately hoping to fall into his bed to rest up before tomorrow’s game 5.

When he lets them both in, she moves brusquely past him to pace around his living space. It’s the most worked up he thinks he’s ever seen her and he’s at a loss, feeling like the tension is one-sided and he’s out to sea.

“Well, don’t I feel like a fool.”

Steve can’t tell if she’s mad or not when she finally settles on sitting astride the arm of his couch and staring at her nails.

“Nat, I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re seeing Bucky.”

Steve gulps. He and Bucky haven’t talked about it so he knows they’ve certainly not agreed to tell anyone.

“I didn’t tell Sam either, if it helps.”

“It doesn’t,” she says, but Steve can tell from her posture that it does, just a little bit. “I’ve been pushing girls on you. In front of your boyfriend. When did this start?”

“He’s not my-“ Steve starts, then stops. He doesn’t know what they are, but he thinks that they’re exclusive. He just can’t bring himself to lie to her again.

She looks up and meets his eyes.

“You fucking idiot.”

 Steve stays silent.

“You don’t know, do you?”

She laughs and her entire disposition changes.

“Who knew you had it in you? When?”

“Boston. The night where, you know.”

“Where Rumlow asked you what it’s like to fuck him. You didn’t know then, but you thought you might try it out, you dog.”

“Come on, Nat.” Steve says warningly.

“So it's more than that. Does he know?”

There’s no use in playing stupid with her. “If he does, he hasn’t said anything. We haven’t really talked about it, we’ve just. ”

“Fucked. You’re both idiots… the way you act around each other it’s…”

“It’s what?”

“It’s ridiculous, Steve. He looks at you sometimes like he doesn't want to look anywhere else.”

“Far cry from January, huh?”

“No, that was different. Then he was looking everywhere but at you”

“I don’t know what to do,” he sighs.

“I think you do.” She kisses his cheek and leaves.

It’s only then that Steve reaches for his phone.

There on the lockscreen are several notifications for e-mails to his personal address, a notification from the app he’d been playing, a text from Wanda Maximoff, three texts from Rebecca Barnes and right at the top, two texts from Bucky.

[10:34] _When this is over, when we win the Cup, I’m going to ride you real slow in our bed, take that big cock._

[11:28] _Also my bed sucks. I miss you._

 When they lose the game that could have ended it, Steve reminds himself it’s nobody’s fault.

***

It’s 2-2 when the final buzzer sounds, signaling impending overtime. They’re all at the bench and the mood is as serious as the situation befits. A goal can mean the Kings live to fight another day. A goal can mean the Cup.

The whole team has played solidly, but he can tell they’re bone-tired - the sign of a long campaign. But they’ve got this far, the lengths of some of their beards testify to that. Thor is bleeding from the brow after a nasty collision late in the third, and Jim’s clearly favouring one leg. Clint, who scored the first goal of the game looks like he’s run ragged, and Bucky, having assisted the goal Steve scored in the second. Well. He just looks hungry and that sparks fire in Steve.  

“Nobody wants this more than we do,” and he doesn’t know if he’s talking about him, about Bucky, about the team as a whole, or the City of Toronto. He’ll take E, all of the above.

Steve hears his heart pound double-time as he watches them roll out their second line to start. He can see the sweat on Nat’s forehead and the faint quiver of Quicksilver’s bottom lip. The Kings are crowding Bruce’s posts, and Steve’s heart nearly stops when Tony’s old defense partner and former-Leaf Rhodey sends a rocket shot careening straight to the top left corner. Banner saves; an outstretched glove so fast Steve wouldn’t’ve bet on it. The Fourth line takes their shift and they draw the Kings out of the Leafs’ zone. Fifty-three seconds later, it’s back, iced this time, and Sam, Bucky, and Steve are hopping the boards, skating to the faceoff dot.

Steve doesn’t take a minute to think about Banner and the boys beside him. He wins the faceoff and the puck lands at Sam’s stick. Sam passes to Tony and Tony brings it further forward before he’s dispossessed near centre ice by Eric Savin. Savin’s on a breakaway and Steve is trying his fucking best to backcheck, when like a demon Bucky outstretches his stick to catch solely the puck. It lands on the tip of Sam’s stick, and just as fast Steve is skating back toward the Kings’ goaltender. Sam sends the puck straight to Steve and Steve doesn’t think twice before blasting the puck toward the goal. Time seems to slow down, until it doesn’t, and then he’s got his arms full of Bucky screaming nonsensically into his face. Sam yells by his side, and suddenly the whole team is on them and it clicks. _They’ve won the Stanley Cup._

They break apart and race as a unit toward Bruce whose skating down the ice, helmet off and smiling that kind smile of his, magnified. _Banner! Banner! Banner!_ That’s his team, and behind them, the crowd is booming, too. They won on home ice. He locks eyes with Natasha and she bounds into his arms. He spins her like the ballerina she once was. They break apart laughing and skate over to Clint, who's crying.

But he’s not the only one. Morita’s got silent tears streaming down his cheeks, and Pietro does too, clutching at Sam like he can’t believe they did it. When Bucky skates back to him and throws an arm around his shoulders, Steve can see his eyes are gleaming blue.

Bucky turns his face to him, sweaty hair and beard and red helmet indents on his forehead. He’s never looked better. “This is nothing like the last one.” 

Tony pulls Steve into a hug next.

The celebrations are a blur until Steve’s name is called for the Conn Smythe trophy, and he accepts it, yells at his team something about how nothing is possible without them. He feels drunk, and not a drop of alcohol has touched his lips.

He skates back to the team where Thor pulls him into a bear hug.

And then there’s near silence. There it is – coming through out of the tunnel and down the red carpet to the podium that waits in the Leafs’ zone

Steve has chills that have nothing to do with the ice. He feels like he can’t breathe.

The Commissioner Jonah J. Jameson stands with a microphone. “Here it is. This Crowd has waited over 50 years for this moment. There could be no more dedicated than these fans, than Nick Fury, than Maria Hill, and each of these brave players that did an incredible job of clinching each of the four Playoffs series that stood in the way between them and Lord Stanley’s Cup. Toronto Maple Leafs, you’ve waited years for this, but here it is, you get to hoist the Stanley Cup. Steve Rogers, it’s your honour, come on up.

Steve can’t believe it’s happening and as he skates toward the Cup, his hands shake but then there’s silver between them and they’ve never been more steady. The first thing he thinks of is that it’s true what they say – the Cup weighs 36 pounds, except when you’re holding it. Steve can swear it’s weightless, skating around in a circle, lifting it to a crowd so loud he can barely hear. They’ve never loved him more than they do now. He doesn’t know what his face is doing. He thinks he might be crying. He sees nothing but silver.

He hands it to Tony, next, and breathless he watches as each of his teammates lift the Holy Grail, bringing it to their lips, over their heads. Riley’s there in a temporary wheelchair, assisted by Sam who’s still glassy-eyed from the Cup, now secured in Riley’s hands.

Bucky is the last player to receive it, and by choice, from what Steve could tell when Nat tried to pass it to him. Before he accepts the Cup from Goose, he lifts a finger to point at a certain section in the crowd. Steve instinctively knows it’s where Becca is sitting, and he feels his heart swell as he sees Bucky lift it over his white-and-blue sweater, doing his lap red-faced and screaming in jubilation. It’s so fucking real.

Bucky skates up to him, arms still hoisting the Stanley Cup around his head and handing it back to Steve. As he does so, he brings their faces close together. “Steve. _Steve_.” Then the Cup is back in his arms above his head, as Bucky puts his hands on Steve’s hips and pulls them to his own. He kisses Steve squarely on the mouth, and it’s wet, and salty, and it’s absolutely perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> FIN!
> 
>  
> 
> two last notes:  
> 1\. the title was taken from Andrea Gibson's "Truce"  
> 2\. I don't speak Russian, but according to google translate, what Nat says - “nevezeniye.” [невезение] means bad luck. That's what I wanted it to say, but I could be wrong, so take that translation with a grain of salt.


End file.
